Px*^    i""**  K    C^ 

OEMS 


DANA   BURNET 


POEMS 


BY 


DANA  BURNET 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND    LONDON 


POEMS 

Copyright,  1915,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  1915 

H-P 


TO 
MY    WIFE 


330305 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

The  poems  in  this  collection,  with  one  or  two 
exceptions,  are  those  which  have  appeared  pre- 
viously in  various  prints.  For  permission  to  issue 
them  in  book  form  my  acknowledgments  are  due 
the  editors  and  publishers  of  The  Evening  Sun 
(New  York),  The  North  American  Review,  Harper's 
Magazine,  Life,  The  Masses,  Puck,  Harper  s 
Weekly  and  The  Cornell  University  Era. 

D.  B. 


CONTENTS 

POEMS  OF  WAR 

PAGE 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LIEGE 3 

WAR 8 

THE  PLAINT  OF  PAN 10 

THE  DESERTER 12 

"SLEEP,  LITTLE  SOLDIER,  SLEEP" 15 

THE  GLORY  OF  WAR 17 

THE  GUNBOAT 18 

THE  FIRST  DEAD 20 

THE  SURVIVOR 22 

STORM 23 

THE  BUILDER 24 

THE  FORGE  OF  GOD 26 

THE  FLEET  SAILS 34 

CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  TRENCHES 36 

AMMUNITION 40 

THE  DEAD 42 

IN  A  VILLAGE 44 

ALBERT  OF  BELGIUM 47 

THE  RETURN 50 

[viil 


CONTENTS 
POEMS  OF  PANAMA 


PAGE 


THE  SACK  OF  OLD  PANAMA 55 

THE  VISION 74 

PANAMA  CITY 75 

THE  HOSPITAL 77 

THE  OLD  PRISON 80 

THE  CANAL ,    .  82 

GAYHEART 

GAYHJBART 85 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

SONG 109 

HARVEST no 

BALLAD  OF  DEAD  GIRLS 112 

LINCOLN 116 

THE  DANCER 118 

THE  HOME  LAND 121 

BALLAD  OF  THE  DEAD  KING      .......  123 

IN  A  WINDOW 127 

LITTLE  WHITE  HEARSE "128 

PEACE 129 

BALLAD  OF  THE  LATE  JOHN  FLINT 131 

HILLS 135 

THE  PARK  .    .    ..: 137 

[  viii  ] 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

*  ROSES  IN  THE  SUBWAY 139 

BALLAD  OF  A  CRUEL  FATE 140 

Our  OF  THE  FOG 142 

LOVE'S  LIGHT  WORLD 144 

THE  JESTER 146 

PAPER  ROSES 147 

HUMORESQUE 148 

THREE  SWORDS 150 

To  THE  CITY 152 

SONG  IN  THE  DUSK 154 

THE  VASE 155 

IN  A  CAFE 157 

A  FACE  AT  CHRISTMAS 159 

PILGRIM'S  PRAYER 161 

THE  VAGRANT 162 

HOUSE  OF  YEARS     .    .  - 164 

"THREE  MEN  o*  MERRI" 165 

THE  TEACHING 167 

IMPRESSION 168 

THE  SINGING 169 

CHRISTMAS  PRAYER 170 

THE  RIDDLE 172 

"I  HAVE  So  LOVED  THE  DAY" 175 

THE  OTHER  SIDE  THE  HILL 176 

THE  ADVENTURER 178 

AUTUMN 181 

THE  PRODIGAL 182 

HUNGER 185 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BRIDE      k .    .    .    .  187 

THE  RAGGED  PIPER 189 

SISTERS  OF  THE  CROSS  OF  SHAME 193 

POEM  FOR  EASTER 196 

IN  A  DEATH  HOUSE 197 

IN  A  GARRET 203 

THE  DREADNOUGHT 205 

"WHO  DREAMS  SHALL  LIVE" 209 

WAYFARERS 210 

MY  SAINT  LIES  SLEEPING 214 

SONG  FOR  YOUTH 216 

THE  VAGABOND 217 

LIFE    . 219 

POEMS  ABOUT  TOWN 

THE  WOOLWORTH  BUILDING 223 

JIMSY 225 

THE  WINDOW  POSTER 227 

THE  OUTCAST 229 

SUBWAY  TRACK-WALKERS 231 

THE  HAND-ORGAN  MAN 233 

THE  MILLS  HOTEL 235 

THE  UNEMPLOYED 2*37 

THE  BREAD-LINE 239 

FROM  AN  "L"  TRAIN  WINDOW 241 

OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT 243 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE 244 


CONTENTS 

DIALECT  POEMS 


PACK 


THE  ROAD  TO  VAGABONDIA 249 

THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING 252 

HAVANA  BAY 255 

MAGGIE  McFAY 258 

LADDIE 261 

THE  BALLAD  OF  DENNIS  McGiNTY 263 

LITTLE  FISHERMAN 265 

CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  ROAD 266 


[xi] 


DEDICATION 

A  little  while  to  pass  within  the  throng, 

To  dreamy  to  toil,  to  weep,  to  love,  to  die — 

And  then  the  silence  and  the  closing  Song, 
And  no  more  of  the  riddle  that  was  I! 

My  Book  shall  stand  upon  the  quiet  shelf 

Like  some  bright  banner  that  the  fates  have  furled; 

My  dust,  that  was  the  symbol  of  my  Self, 
Shall  scatter  to  the  distance  of  the  world. 

Yet  who  in  this  brief  passing  finds  despair 
Denies  the  certain  God  within  his  breast. 

Life  has  a  crown  for  every  man  to  wear, 
Though  'tis  a  thing  of  moments  at  the  best. 

A  thing  of  moments,  scattered  preciously 
Across  the  level  causeway  of  the  years! 

And  yet  what  sudden  Light  may  I  not  see? 
What  Vision  making  glory  of  my  tears? 

Mayhap  if  I  sing  bravely,  true  and  well, 
My  song  shall  strike  God's  universal  rhyme, 

And  like  the  echoes  of  a  sweet,  stilled  bell 
Live  in  the  heart  of  heaven  after  Time. 


POEMS  OF  WAR 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIEGE 

Now  spake  the  Emperor  to  all  his  shining  battle 

forces, 
To  the  Lancers  and  the  Rifles,  to  the  Gunners  and 

the  Horses; 
And  his  pride  surged  up  within  him  as  he  saw  their 

banners  stream! 
"'Tis  a  twelve-day  march  to  Paris,  by  the  road 

our  fathers  traveled 
And  the  prize  is  half  an  empire  when  the  scarlet 

road's  unraveled — 
Get  you  now  across  the  border, 
God's  decree  and  William's  order — 
Climb  the  frowning  Belgian  ridges 
With  your  naked  swords  agleam! 
Seize  the  City  of  the  Bridges — 
Then  get  on,  get  on  to  Paris — 
To  the  jeweled  streets  of  Paris — 
To  the  lovely  woman,  Paris,  that  has  driven  me 

to  dream!" 

[3] 


A  hundred  thousand  fighting  men 

They  climbed  the  frowning  ridges, 

With  their  flaming  swords  drawn  free 

And  their  pennants  at  their  knee, 

They  went  up  to  their  desire, 

To  the  City  of  the  Bridges, 

With  their  naked  brands  outdrawn 

Like  the  lances  of  the  dawn! 

In  a  swelling  surf  of  fire, 

Crawling  higher — higher — higher — 

Till  they  crumpled  up  and  died 

Like  a  sudden  wasted  tide, 

And  the  thunder  in  their  faces  beat  them  down 

and  flung  them  wide! 
They  had  paid  a  thousand  men, 
Yet  they  formed  and  came  again, 
For  they  heard  the  silver  bugles  sounding  challenge 

to  their  pride, 

And  they  rode  with  swords  agleam, 
For  the  glory  of  a  dream, 
And  they  stormed  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth  and 

withered  there  and  died.  .  .  . 


[4] 


The  daylight  lay  in  ashes 
On  the  blackened  western  hill, 
And  the  dead  were  calm  and  still; 
But  the  Night  was  torn  with  gashes — 
Sudden  ragged  crimson  gashes — 
And  the  siege-guns  snarled  and  roared, 
With  their  flames  thrust  like  a  sword, 
And  the  tranquil  moon  came  riding  on  the  heavens' 
silver  ford. 

What  a  fearful  world  was  there, 

Tangled  in  the  cold  moon's  hair! 

Man  and  beast  lay  hurt  and  screaming, 

(Men  must  die  when  Kings  are  dreaming!) — 

While  within  the  harried  town 

Mothers  dragged  their  children  down 

As  the  awful  rain  came  screaming 

For  the  glory  of  a  Crown! 

So  the  Morning  flung  her  cloak 
Through  the  hanging  pall  of  smoke — 
Trimmed  with  red  it  was,  and  dripping  with  a 

deep  and  angry  stain! 
And  the  Day  came  walking  then 

[51 


Through  a  lane  of  murdered  men, 
And  her  light  fell  down  before  her  like  a  Cross 
upon  the  plain! 

But  the  forts  still  crowned  the  height 
With  a  bitter  iron  crown! 
They  had  lived  to  flame  and  fight, 
They  had  lived  to  keep  the  Town! 
And  they  poured  their  havoc  down 
All  that  day  .  .  .  and  all  that  night  .  .  . 
While  four  times  their  number  came, — 
Pawns  that  played  a  bloody  game! — 
With  a  silver  trumpeting,  for  the  glory  of  the  King, 
To  the  barriers  of  the  thunder  and  the  fury  of 
the  flame! 

So  they  stormed  the  iron  Hill, 

O'er  the  sleepers  lying  still, 

And  their  trumpets  sang  them  forward  through 

the  dull  succeeding  dawns, 
But  the  thunder  flung  them  wide, 
And  they  crumpled  up  and  died, 
They  had  waged  the  war  of  monarchs — and  they 

died  the  death  of  pawns. 
[6] 


But  the  forts  still  stood.  .  .  .  Their  breath 

Swept  the  foeman  like  a  blade, 

Though  ten  thousand  men  were  paid 

To  the  hungry  purse  of  Death, 

Though  the  field  was  wet  with  blood, 

Still  the  bold  defenses  stood, 

Stood! 

And  the  King  came  out  with  his  body-guard  at  the 

days  departing  gleam — 
And  the  moon  rode  up  behind  the  smoke  and  showed 

the  King  his  dream. 


[7] 


WAR 

ALL  down  the  reeking  trail  of  years  the  mailed 
armies  go, 

With  mock  of  flags  and  bitter  drums  and  dead 
hearts  in  a  row, 

Behind  them  in  the  gloom  of  blood  the  broken 
nations  lie — 

And  o'er  them  wheels  their  gruesome  god,  a  buz- 
zard in  the  sky. 

For  some  have  marched  with  heathen  curse,  and 

some  with  Christian  prayer, 
But  all  have  paid  the  vulture  god  that  beats  the 

darkened  air; 
And  women  know  and  children  know  that  hear 

the  trumpets'  breath, 
There  is  no  god  goes  with  them  but  the  wheeling 

god  of  death. 

A  thousand  vineyards  rot  and  die,  a  thousand 
hearths  lie  cold, 


And  still  earth  sends  her  armies  down  for  some 

new  shame  of  gold, 
And  still  the  little  mothers  sit  with  faces  white 

and  wan, 
And  watch  the  buzzards  wheeling  in  the  crimson 

smoke  of  dawn! 

i 
How  long,  O  Liege  of  Heaven,  ere  Thy  fearful 

judgments  cease? 
What  sin  is  on  my  brother's  hand  that  will  not 

give  him  peace? 
What  flaw  is  in  the  Potter's  clay  that  molds  us 

to  such  shame, 
And    puts   upon    a   murdered    man   the   grinning 

mask  of  fame? 

Down   all   the   reeking  trail   of  years   I   see   the 

armies  go, 
With  mock  of  flags  and  waste  of  dreams  and  dead 

hearts  in  a  row, 
And  high  above  the  blighted  road  their  iron  feet 

have  trod 
I  see  the  awful  clouding  wing  that  blots  the  face 

of  God. 

[9] 


THE  PLAINT  OF  PAN 

MARS  has  my  reed!     My  pipe  of  water  rush, 
Whereon  I  played  the  shepherds  to  their  toil, 

And  whistled  up  the  reaper  in  the  dawn, 
And  whiled  the  plowman  furrowing  the 
soil. 

My  reed!    My  precious  pipe!    The  trill  in  it 
Was  lighter  than  the  laugh  of  water-brooks — 

'Twas  life  itself,  I  tell  you — oft  and  oft 

I've  charmed  a  savant  with  it  from  his  books. 

And  made  a  wise  man  of  him,  too!     And  then 
When  twilight  hazed  the  pretty  woodland 
streams, 

I've  led  my  lovers  with  a  lilt  of  faith 

Until  their  eyes  were  wonderful  with  dreams. 

I've  piped  the  winding  caravans  of  peace, 
And  set  a  singing  wind  to  blow  the  ships — 
[10] 


Now  Mars,  the  braggart,  thieves  my  pipe  away, 
And  claps  it  to  his  rough  and  blowsy  lips. 

Jupiter,  listen!     Does  he  know  the  stops? 

Can  he  awake  those  silver  twining  airs 
By  which  I  bound  my  world?     Hark,  as  he  pipes 

Afar  the  angry  strident  trumpet  blares  1 

My  song  is  twisted  out  of  all  its  sweet! 

Souls  cry  in  agony!    The  loosed  sword  gleams; 
Oh,  Jupiter,  give  Pan  his  pipes  again! 

The  world's  awry — and  there  are  no  more 
dreams! 


I"] 


THE  DESERTER 

THERE  was  a  face  at  a  window 

As  we  went  marching  by — 
There  was  the  face  of  a  woman, 

And  I'll  see  it  till  I  die! 

The  drums  beat  like  a  strong  man's  heart 

As  we  swung  down  the  hill; 
The  flags  were  snapping  in  the  wind 

And  the  fifes  were  blowing  shrill  .  .  . 
And  then  I  saw  a  woman's  face 

And  I  knew  I  could  not  kill. 

'Twas  gone  again  in  half  a  flash— * 

I  only  saw  her  eyes 
As  I  have  sometimes  seen  a  star 

Fall  blindly  down  the  skies. 
And  then  ...  I  heard  the  beating  drums, 

And  knew  that  they  were  lies. 

[12] 


I  could  not  take  another  step — 
God  help  me! — for  my  life; 

A  madness  gripped  my  whirling  brain, 
And  stung  me  like  a  knife.  .  .  . 

I  threw  my  lance  down  in  the  road 
And  cursed  the  blowing  fife. 

An  officer  rode  up  ...  I  saw 
His  naked  sword  outdrawn; 

But  he  only  sat  his  horse  and  smiled 
With  a  face  most  strangely  wan, 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "I  saw  it,  too." 
And  then,  "You'll  die  at  dawn!" 

He  beckoned.     Soldiers  took  my  arms 
And  dragged  me  to  the  rear. 

I  passed  a  thousand  staring  eyes, 
I  heard  my  comrades  jeer; 

They  said  that  I  had  been  afraid — 
They  lied!    It  was  not  fear.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  woman's  stricken  face 
That  looked  across  the  sill 
[13] 


As  we  came  down  the  iron  road 
With  our  fifes  a-blowing  shrill. 

It  was  a  face  that  looked  at  me 
And  would  not  let  me  kill. 

And  so  I  wait  beneath  the  stars, 
A  soul  condemned  to  die — 

And  down  the  curling  road  I  hear 
My  comrades  marching  by. 

And  all  the  fifes  and  all  the  drums 
I  know  to  be  a  lie! 

There  was  a  face  at  a  window 
That  looked  out  and  was  gone — 

There  was  the  face  of  a  woman, 
And  I'll  see  it  till  the  dawn! 


[14] 


"SLEEP,  LITTLE    SOLDIER,  SLEEP" 

Do  you  lie  alone  beneath  the  moon? 

Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 
A  mother's  heart  is  broken  soon — • 

Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 
They  say  that  you  will  come  no  more — 
Yet  I  place  my  lamp  within  the  door 
Lest  you  look  back  from  that  other  shore — 

Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 

Was  there  any  hand  to  cool  your  brow? 

Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 
Where's  all  the  laughter  of  you  now? 

Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 
Another  year,  with  sun  and  rain, 
The  field  will  bear  its  golden  grain, 
But  you  will  never  smile  again — 

Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 

Oh,  light  his  dreams,  thou  mother  moon! 
Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 
[IS] 


A  woman's  heart  is  broken  soon — 
Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 

The  King,  he  wears  his  royal  crown, 

The  gay  flags  wave  above  the  town; 

But  the  little  soldier  lays  him  down- 
Sleep,  little  soldier,  sleep. 


[16] 


THE  GLORY  OF  WAR 

HOOF-BEAT  and  trumpet  blast, 

And  banners  in  the  dawn! 
And  what  of  the  grain  in  the  fallow  field 

When  the  husbandman  has  gone? 

Sword  song  and  battle  roar, 
And  the  great  grim  fighting-line! 

And  what  of  the  woman  in  the  door 
And  the  blown  grape  on  the  vine? 

Drum-beat  and  draped  flag 
And  he  beneath  his  shield — 

And  what  of  the  woman  weeping  low, 
And  the  dead  grain  in  the  field? 


[17] 


THE  GUNBOAT 

OUT  in  the  good,  clean  water  where  it's  blue  and 

wide  and  deep, 
The  pride  of  Britain's  navy  lies  with  thunders  all 

asleep, 
And  the  men  they  fling  their  British  songs  along 

the  open  sky, 
But  the  little  modest  gunboat,  she's  a-creepin'  in 

to  die! 


The  First  Line's  swingin'  lazy  on  the  purple  outer 
ring, 

The  proudest  ships  that  ever  kept  the  honor  of  a 
King! 

But  nosin*  down  the  roadway  past  the  bones  of 
other  wrecks 

Goes  the  doughty  little  gunboat  with  her  man- 
hood on  her  decks! 

[18] 


Oh,  the  First  Line's  in  the  offing,  with  its  shotted 

lightnings  pent, 
The  proudest  fleet  that  ever  kept  the  King  his 

sacrament! 
But  down  the  death-sown  harbor  where  a  ship 

may  find  her  grave, 
The  plucky  little  gunboat  is  a-sinkin'  'neath  the 

wave! 

Then  sing  your  British  chanteys  to  the  ends  of 

all  the  seas, 
And    fling    your    British    banners    to   the    Seven 

Oceans'  breeze — 
But  when  you  tell  the  gallant  tale  beneath  the 

open  sky 
Give  honor  to  the  gunboat  that  was  not  too  small 

to  die! 


THE  FIRST  DEAD 

(VERA    CRUZ — 1914) 

BOY,  in  your  shroud  of  blue, 
We  are  so  proud  of  you — 

Slain  in  your  splendid  years; 
There  in  the  foreign  street, 
Slain,  while  the  years  were  sweet- 
See,  all  our  eyes  have  tears! 

Now  rolls  the  muffled  drum 
Mourning  thy  martyrdom, 

Boy  in  the  shroud  of  blue; 
Smiling  and  unafraid, 
Still  in  thy  youth  arrayed, 

We  are  so  sad  for  you! 

Toll,  toll  the  bitter  bell, 
Hearts  have  a  grief  to  tell, 
Dead  is  the  boy  in  blue! 

[20] 


Dead  with  his  dreams  denied, 

Yet  that  he  laughed  and  died, 

Give  him  his  honor's  due! 

Give  him  the  loud  salute, 
Give  him  the  homage  mute, 

Boy  that  was  brave  and  true! 
Now,  while  our  eyes  have  tears 
Give  him  his  deathless  years, 

Honor  the  boy  in  blue! 


[21] 


THE  SURVIVOR 

HAVE  ye  heard  the  thunder  down  the  wind? 

Have  ye  seen  the  smoke  against  the  sky? 
Nay,  for  my  love  goes  from  my  arms 

To  march  and  die! 

Have  ye  seen  the  scarlet  battle  flags, 
The  distant  lightnings  of  the  sword? 

Nay,  for  my  house  hath  lost  its  king, 
My  heart  its  lord. 

Have  ye  heard  the  splendid  lifting  song 
The  wind-blown  paean  of  the  strife? 

Nay,  for  they  sing  of  Death — and  I 
Am  chained  to  life! 


[22] 


STORM 

Our  of  the  thunder  leaps  a  crooked  sword 

Bright   as   a   serpent's  tongue — aye,   bright  as 
blood, 

And  men  within  the  moment  cast  their  cloths 
And  stand  forth  naked  in  a  snarling  brood. 

The  storm  treads  on  like  some  great-booted  god, 
Roaring  and  slaying  with  its  bloody  fists, 

And  men  are  milled  between  its  awful  palms — 
Their  vaunted  masteries  are  blown  like  mists. . . . 

We  have  not  conquered  elemental  things, 

Not  chained  the  lightnings,  nor  controlled  the 
skies — 

The  storm  breaks  and  the  world's  a  beast  again, 
Snarling,  at  bay,  with  terror  in  its  eyes! 


[23] 


THE  BUILDER 

AMERICA,  thou  Builder! 

Thou  readier  up  to  God! 

Thou,  whose  tall  cities  grope  with  thrusting  spires 

Into  the  shining  empire  of  the  sky, 

Stand  now  with  thy  good  weapons  in  thy  hands, 

There's  a  task  here  for  a  Builder. 

Hark  the  wind 

That  moans  in  from  the  sea!    It  hath  no  more 
The  song  of  proud  ships  going  unafraid 
Nor  the  sweet  hum  of  cities  at  their  mills; 
The  beat  of  souls  is  in  it  ...  and  the  wings 
Of  wasted  dreams,  and  the  great  gasp  of  Death. 

See,  there's  a  flame  to  eastward!    Half  a  world' 
Burns  to  its  naked  timbers!    Heav'n  itself 
Is  stained,  and  all  the  dynasty  of  stars 
Which  we  had  built  our  stone  to  like  a  song 
Is  blotted  by  the  angry  bloodied  fires! 
[24] 


They  burn!    Our  brothers'  cities!    All  those  towers 
Where  History  lay  cradled  and  where  Truth 
Dwelt  in  her  golden  garments  like  a  Queen, 
And  Art,  her  handmaid,  brushing  from  her  robe 
The  dust  of  rotted  centuries,  stood  forth 
Clear-eyed,  a  star-smudged  palette  in  her  hand 
And  God  Himself  upon  her  brush's  tip — 
They  burn!     Those  ancient  splendid  cities  burn! 
What  Art  is  left?    What  Truth?    What  History? 
The  whole's  to  build  again — and  we  alone 
Are  strong  to  build  it!    Now,  my  country,  rise 
And  take  the  stone  up  in  thy  straining  hands. 
To  thee  of  all  the  nations  and  the  tribes 
That  e'er  have  played  the  game  of  Destiny 
Is  giv'n  the  task  to  shape  the  world  anew! 

Then  wake,  for  dawn  is  shining  on  the  stone! 
Fling  thy  tall  spires  to  Heaven  like  a  song! 
Come,  lift  the  world  up  to  the  rising  sun, 
America,  thou  Builder! 


[25] 


THE  FORGE  OF  GOD 


WE  had  dug  a  trench  in  the  broken  field,  in  the 

field  just  plowed  for  sowing, 
Behind  us  stood  the  taken  town  with  its  fired 

towers  glowing, 
And  high  above  it  on  the  hill  a  scarlet  flag  was 

blowing.    . 


We  had  sacked  the  town  at  dusk, 

Left  it  black  and  cold  and  still 

On  the  shoulder  of  the  hill, 
With  its  beauty  all  a  husk, 
Empty,  empty  in  the  dusk — 
And  a  scar  upon  the  temple  that  was  lifted  to  His 
name. 

But  the  Emperor  had  smiled 

Like  a  pleased  and  haughty  child, 
[26] 


Clapped  his  clean  white  hands  and  cried, 
At  the  splendor  that  had  died, 
At  his  scarlet  flag  flung  skyward  like  a  sudden 
wisp  of  flame! 

There  was  naught  but  red  and  black 

In  that  conquered  world  of  ours; 
'Twas  a  bitter  town  to  sack 

With  its  cursed  priestly  scars! 

Though  we  said,  the  name  of  Mars 
As  we  laid  it  on  the  rack, 

Still  it  turned  us  ghostly  faces  when  we  smote  it 
with  the  rod; 

Turned  us  faces  black  and  red; 

Looked  with  eyes  we  knew  were  dead, 
Till  the  very  earth  was  horror  where  our  iron  feet 
had  trod.  .  .  . 

Trampled  soils  and  shaking  airs, 

Smoke  and  screams  and  futile  prayers, 
And  the  sunset  like  a  bleeding  wound  upon  the 
breast  of  God! 

We  had  ringed  the  town  with  steel, 
We  had  compassed  it  with  flame, 
[27] 


And  our  royal  master  came 
With  his  gentlemen  at  heel 
To  the  temple  where  the  solid  shot  had  torn  their 

grinning  holes. 

And  below  the  blackened  hill 
Slept  the  creatures  of  his  will, 
Slept  his  soldiers  in  the  trenches  like  a  brood  of 

weary  moles, 

But  the  whimper  of  their  breath 
Told  how  deep  they  dreamed  of  death 
And  the  faces  of  the  things  they'd  killed  made 
trouble  in  their  souls. 


There  was  blood  upon  their  hands, 
And  they  moaned  again,  again; 
They  were  not  machines,  but  men 
Freed  from  fetters  and  commands, 
And    they    whimpered    till    the    Emperor    came 

stumbling  from  his  wines — 
Came  his  gentlemen  close  after 
With  their  lips  still  set  for  laughter, 
Heard,  and  sickened  at  the  horror  of  the  Wind 
that  swept  the  Lines. 
[28] 


So  stood  shaking  in  the  street, 

With  their  laughter  stricken  dead, 
With  their  chaos  at  their  feet, 

And  the  temple  overhead, 

And  the  monarch  struck  the  pose  he  loved,  the 
pose  he  hoped  was  fame. 

But  the  whisper  on  the  night 

Made  his  cheek  a  sickly  white, 
And  the  tower  made  him   little;    stripped   him 
naked  to  his  name. 


Then  a  Light  leaped  suddenly 

From  the  temple's  inner  gloom, 

Like  God's  glory  in  a  tomb 
When  the  sheeted  soul  goes  free, 
From  the  gutted  temple's  dusk, 
From  the  wither  and  the  husk, 
Glowed  a  Light  of  sudden  splendor  like  a  fallen 
brand  of  dawn. 

It  was  glory,  it  was  wrath, 
It  was  fury  of  His  name, 

As  it  beat  its  crimson  path 

To  the  cross  upon  the  spire 
[29] 


Stabbing  star-ward,  higher,  higher, 
Till  it  fluttered  down  and  faltered  like  a  gleam- 
ing sword  withdrawn. 

II 

A  burning  priest  stood  in  the  door. 

I  swear  he  burned;    his  garments  burned, 
His  face  was  fire  as  he  turned, 
A  thing  no  man  had  seen  before! 
A  miracle  ...  a  burning  man! 
And  some  there  were  who  cried  and  ran — 
But  he  came  with  a  crucifix  between  his  smoking  fists. 
An  iron  crucifix,  he  had; 

A  Cross  ...  an  image  of  the  Tree 
On  which  our  Lord  of  Galilee 
Was  tortured  by  a  world  gone  mad — 
Came  he  afire  from  the  door 

Strode  down  and  plucked  the  jeweled  brand, 
From  the  pale  monarch's  shaking  hand, 
Held  high  the  arms  of  peace  and  war, 
Held  high  the  Sword;   the  Cross  held  high 
Till  their  great  shadows  marked  the  sky 
Flung  dancing  up  by  that  same  Light  that  played 
about  his  wrists. 

[30] 


Then  in  that  scarred  and  sacred  spot, 
The  great  Light  leaped  full-wrathed  again; 
He  thrust  the  glittered  sword  within, 
And  when  the  blade  was  glowing  hot 
He  beat  it  with  the  heavy  Cross, 
God's  iron  on  hell's  steel.  .  .  .  The  toss 
Of  sparks  made  starry  radiance  about  him  as  he 

toiled, 

And  while  we  waited,  shorn  of  breath, 
He  lifted  up  the  thing  he'd  made — 
A  rough-wrought  plowshare.  .  .  .  Then  he 

swayed 

And  fell,  and  lay  there  cold  in  death. 
He  was  a  man,  and  he  had  burned. 
He  lay  there,  stilled;    his  face  was  turned 
To  the  first  gray  of  dawn  that  marked  the  temple 
all  despoiled. 


ill 

Up  from  the  trench  in  the  broken  field,  in  the 

field  of  iron  reaping, 
There  rose  a  cry  of  frighted  men,  and  a  thousand 

men  came  leaping, 
[31] 


Came  up  the  hill  with  staring  eyes  and  spirits 
shocked  from  sleeping. 

There  was  moan  upon  their  lips, 
There  was  terror  in  their  eyes, 
They  had  seen  against  the  skies 
God  .  .  .  with  smoking  finger-tips, 
Smite  the  glowing  blade  of  war 
Snatched  from  their  pale  Emperor! 
In  the  furnace  of  the  morning  they  had  seen  a 

plowshare  wrought! 
They  came  crying  up  the  hill 

Where  the  town  stood  like  a  husk, 
In  the  morning's  pearly  dusk, 
To  the  temple,  charred  and  still, 
To  their  posing  monarch's  feet, 
In  the  stricken  wasted  street, 
All  their  costly  iron  discipline  made  nothing  by  a 

thought. 

And  they  took  him  in  their  hands, 
Took  the  King  in  their  rough  clasp, 
Till  he  cried  out  at  their  grasp, 
Shouting  futile  wild  commands, 
But  they  laughed  ...  a  thousand  men, 
[323 


Laughed  and  cried  and  laughed  again, 

Caught  the   King  up  in  their  hands   and   flung 

their  weapons  all  away, 
And  they  beat  their  breasts  and  sang, 
Marching  downward  from  the  hill, 
Masters,  masters  of  their  will! 
And  their  wild  hosannas  rang 
From  a  thousand  throats  to  God 
Lifting,  lifting  as  they  trod, 

And    above    the    ruined   temple,   lo,   the  sudden 
breaking  day! 


[33] 


THE  FLEET  SAILS 

DOWN   through   the   smother   of  the   gray   mist, 

through  the  dull-shot  silver  morning, 
We  watched    a   proud   ship   streaming  with   a 

ribbon  in  her  hair. 
And  the  men's  red  blood  beat  faster  in  their 

veins  to  see  her  there, 

And  we  said,  "She  flies  the  flag  that  lifts  for  no 
man's  scorning!" 

Wind  shook  the  water  into  music  as  a  great  hand 

shakes  a  zither, 
And  suddenly  we  saw  the  flag  flame  through 

the  torn  mist's  lining. 
And  tears  were  in  the  women's  eyes,  but  the 

men's  eyes  were  shining, 

And  we  said,  "She  sails  for  honor's  sake,  so  God 
go  with  her!" 

Out  to  the  sky's  gold  and  the  blue  sea,  and  the 
wide  arms  o'  the  morning, 
[34] 


We  saw  our  proud  ship  steam  away,  with  all 

her  grim  guns  sleeping. 
And  the  women's  hearts  were  breaking  slow, 

but  the  men's  hearts  were  leaping! 
And  we  said,  "She  is  the  thing  that  lives  for  no 
man's  scorning!" 


[351 


I 

STILL  the  guns! 

There's  a  ragged  music  on  the  air, 

A  priest  has  climbed  the  ruined  temple's  stair, 
Ah,  still  the  guns! 
It's  Christmas  morning.     Had  ye  all  forgot? 

Peace  for  a  little  while,  ye  battle-scarred — 
Or  do  ye  fear  to  cool  those  minds  grown  hot? 

Up  the  great  lovely  tower,  wracked  and  marred, 
An  old  priest  toils — 
Men  of  the  scattered  soils, 
Men  of  the  British  mists, 

Men  of  France! 

Put  by  the  lance. 
Men  of  Irish  fists, 
Men  of  heather, 
Kneel  together — ' 

[361 


Men  of  Prussia, 

Great  dark  men  of  Russia, 

Kneel,  kneel! 

Hark  how  the  slow  bells  peal. 

A  thousand  leagues  the  faltered  music  runs, 

Ah,  still  the  wasting  thunder  of  the  guns, 

Still  the  guns! 

ii 

Out  of  the  trenches  lifts  a  half-shamed  song, 

"Holy  Night!" 
Here,  where  the  sappers  burrowed  all  night  long 

To  bring  the  trench  up  for  the  morrow's  fight, 

A  British  lad,  with  face  unwonted  white, 
Looks  at  the  sky  and  sings  a  carol  through, 

"God  rest  you  merry,  gentlemen!" 
It  was  the  only  Christmas  thing  he  knew. 

And  there  were  tears  wrung  out  of  hard-lipped 

men, 

Tears  in  the  strangest  places, 
Tears  on  troopers'  faces! 

Ill 

They  had  forgotten  what  a  life  was  for, 
They  had  been  long  at  suffering  and  war, 
[371 


They  had  forgot  old  visions,  one  by  one, 

But  now  they  heard  the  tolling  bell  of  Rheims, 

Tolling  bell  of  Rheims; 

They  saw  the  bent  priest,  white-haired  in  the  sun, 
Climb  to  the  hazard  of  the  weakened  spire, 
They  saw,  and  in  them  stirred  their  hearts'  desire 
For  Streets  and  Cities,  Shops  and  Homes  and  Farms, 

They  only  wanted  space  to  love  and  live; 
They  felt  warm  arms  about  them — women's  arms, 

And  such  caresses  as  a  child  might  give 
Coming  all  rosy  in  the  early  day 

To  kiss  his  world  awake  .  .  . 

The  British  lad 
Broke  off  his  carol  with  a  sob.     The  play 

Of  churchly  musics,  solemn,  strange,  and  sad, 
Fluttered  in  silver  tatters  down  the  wind, 
Flung  from  the  tower  where  the  guns  had  sinned 
Across  the  black  and  wounded  fields.  .  .  .  The  bell 

Sang  on — a  feeble  protest  to  the  skies, 
Until  the  world  stood  like  a  halted  hell, 

And  men  with  their  dead  brothers  at  their  feet 

Drew  dirty  sleeves  across  their  tired  eyes, 
Finding    the    cracked    chimes    overwhelming 
sweet. 

[38] 


IV 

Aye,  still  the  guns! 
And  heed  the  Christmas  bell, 
Ye  who  have  done  Death's  work  so  well, 
Ye  worn  embattled  ones, 
Kneel,  kneel! 

Put  by  the  blood-stained  steel, 
Men  from  the  far  soils  and  the  scattered  seas, 
Go  down  upon  your  knees, 
While  there  is  one  with  faith  enough  to  dare 
The  wracked  cathedral's  crumbled  broken  stair — 
While  there  lives  one  with  peace  upon  his  eyes, 
While  hope's  faint  song  is  fluttered  to  the  skies, 
In  that  brief  space  between  the  Christmas  suns, 
Still  the  guns! 


[39] 


AMMUNITION 

How  do  ye  load  your  guns  withal, 
Ye  little  Lords  of  waste  and  war? 

With  shotted  steel  and  lightnings  chained, 
And  the  pent  thunders'  roar? 

Or  do  ye,  as  I  sometimes  think, 
To  quell  the  foeman's  onward  flood, 

Ram  home  a  charge  of  human  life 
And  spit  it  forth  in  flesh  and  blood? 

Oh,  is  it  steel  or  is  it  bone, 

Or  iron  price  or  human  toll? 
Is  yonder  noise  the  crash  of  guns 

Or  is  it  cry  of  mortal  soul? 

How  do  ye  load  your  guns  withal, 
Ye  little  Lords  of  brief  command? 

What  drips  upon  the  cannon's  mouth, 
What  stains  the  scarlet  of  your  hand? 
[40] 


Are  those  the  faces  of  the  dead 

That  stare  from  out  the  battle  pall? 

How  do  ye  feed  those  smoking  mouths? 
How  do  ye  load  your  guns  withal? 

Think  not,  ye  Princes  of  a  Day, 
To  cloak  the  thunders  with  a  lie. 

There  never  was  a  war  of  steel, 
There  is  no  battle  save  men  die! 


[41] 


THE  DEAD 

THE  dead  they  sleep  so  deep, 

The  dead  they  lie  so  still, 
I  wonder  that  another  man 

May  look  on  them  and  kill. 

The  dead  they  lie  so  pale, 
The  dead  they  stare  so  deep, 

I  wonder  that  an  Emperor 
May  look  on  them  and  sleep. 

Their  hands  are  empty  cups, 
No  dream  is  in  their  hearts. 

Their  eyes  are  like  deserted  rooms 
From  which  the  guest  departs. 

Ah,  living  men  are  fair, 

Clean-limbed  and  straight  and  strong! 
But  dead  men  lie  like  broken  lutes 

Whose  dying  slays  a  song. 
[42] 


Oh,  will  there  come  a  time 
Beneath  some  shining  king 

When  we  shall  arm  for  living's  sake, 
And  turn  from  murdering? 

The  dead  they  lie  so  pale, 

So  empty  of  all  breath — 
I  wonder  that  a  living  world 

Can  make  a  means  of  Death. 


[431 


IN  A  VILLAGE 
(BELGIUM) 

THEY  were  so  happy!    Merely  that,  no  more; 
They  did  not  ask  for  riches  or  the  pomp 
Of  palaces.     Their  eyes  had  smiles  and  tears 
For  such  small  dramas  as  the  laggard  day 
Fetched  o'er  their  homely  door-sills.     They  lived 

truths, 

Came  by  the  world's  ruts  to  the  world's  delights, 
Their  hearts  leaped  up  to  hear  a  baby  laugh — 
They  went  out  in  the  morning  to  the  fields. 

A  church  spire  lifting  slender  to  the  sun 
Made  them  sufficient  symbol  for  their  faith. 
They  thrilled  at  commonplaces;   and  their  hearths 
Were  forges  of  the  day's  mild  happenings, 
Where  life  was  welded,  link  by  glowing  link, 
And  all  so  simply  that  it  never  galled 
The  limbs  that  bore  it. 

[441 


All  they  asked  of  earth 
Was  leave  to  live  on  it,  to  reap  its  fruit, 
To  drink  its  wine,  to  eat  its  daily  bread, 
To  love  a  woman  and  to  trust  a  man — 
To  worship  God  unhindered  and  to  sleep 
At  last  beneath  the  honest  soil  they  loved. 
That  and  no  more. 

It  seems  a  bitter  thing 

That  man  should  so  deny  the  common  bond 
Of  godhood  as  to  slay  his  brother  man. 
And  when  life's  little  is  that  brother's  all, 
The  deed  becomes  a  riddle  thrice  accursed. 

What  menace  breeds  in  simple  villages? 
These  folk  had  only  need  of  bread  and  love; 
They  dreamed  of  no  far  empires,  nor  of  lands 
Beyond  their  hedgerows.     They  were  all  content 
To  wear  the  yoke  of  peasantry,  to  toil 
From  sun  to  sun.     They  were  the  simplest  souls 
That  ever  dwelt  beneath  a  smiling  sky. 
They  lived,  they  loved,  they  laughed,  they  wor- 
shiped God, 

They  broke  their  bread  and  drained  their  cups  of 
wine — 

[451 


Looked  out  across  the  fields  at  even-tide 

With   mute   and   nameless  happiness.  .  .  .  Their 

eyes 
Were  but  the  eyes  of  children  unafraid. 

And  now  their  gutted  houses  gape  and  stare 
With  awful  empty  doors.     Their  hearths  are  dust, 
Their  spire  of  faith  is  broken  like  a  reed, 
Their  women,  wives  and  mothers — torn  apart 
From  those  whose  very  souls  they  were — lie  slain 
With  awful  butcheries.     A  flame  leaps  out, 
The  dust  lifts  'neath  the  tramp  of  iron  feet. 
The  village  fades  behind  a  crimson  cloud, 
Above  the  marching  column  writhes  the  smoke 
Of  stricken  homes,  a  banner  flung  to  God — 
And  in  a  trooper's  knapsack  for  a  sign 
Of  victory  ...  a  baby's  withered  hand. 


[46] 


ALBERT  OF  BELGIUM 

IN  the  twilight  of  the  kings 

When  the  purple  sun  of  pomp 
Sank  on  bloody  wings 

Into  a  sea  of  spears 

And  Death's  mad  romp 

Tossed  against  heaven  with  a  surf  of  tears, 
When  to  be  royal  was  to  be  half  cursed, 

A  man  stood  clean  against  the  waning  light, 
By  fate,  by  manhood,  and  by  virtue  first 

Of  all  the  hearts  he  led  to  Honor's  fight. 

They  said  to  him:    "Stand  not  against  thy  gate 

With  futile  swords,  else  we  shall  trample  thee, 

But    rather   let    us    through.      These    things    are 

Fate. 
Wouldst  thou  with  straws  seek  to  forbid  the 

sea?" 

"Aye,"  said  the  King,  "if  duty  bade  me  to! 
There  is  no  honor  in  me  if  I  stand 
l47l 


Weakly  aside  and  let  your  black  swords  through." 

They  said:    "Count  ye  the  cost   in   men   and 

land." 
He  answered:    "I  am  well  content  to  pay, 

If  in  the  payment  faith  and  honor  lie. 
Come,  if  ye  must!     'Twill  be  a  bloody  day, 

And  ye  shall  see  how  carelessly  we  die!" 
And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  on  that  gate 

The  black  swords  beat  incessantly  until 
It  opened,  and  the  brutish  hordes  rode  through, 

Moving  the  heart  of  all  the  world  to  hate. 
Henceforth  they  fought  a  foe  they  could  not  kill, 

They  fought  the  prayers  of  men,  they  fought 

the  rue 
Of  women's  tears,  the  dreamers'  dreams,  the  songs 

Of  splendid  singers.     They  had  only  death 
To  work  their  will,   and  they  were  weak  with 
wrongs. 

Against  them  moved  the  protest  and  the  breath 
Of  all  mankind.     Whatever  thing  they  trod 

Became  upon  that  hour  a  sacred  thing. 
The  Shrines  they  broke  were  eloquent  of  God, 

The  crown  they  snatched  at  only  proved  a  King! 
[48] 


He  fought  them  foot  by  foot,  a  losing  fight, 
Yet  ever  in  defeat  found  victory, 

Until  at  last,  crowned  by  that  waning  light, 
He  halted  with  his  back  against  the  sea! 

And  there  he  stands,  and  will  stand  through  the 
years, 

Till  God  doth  break  the  Great  Seal  of  the  skies, 
A  hero  who  shall  live,  'twixt  songs  and  tears, 

As  long  as  men  have  visions  in  their  eyes. 
Then  come,  ye  bards,  and  all  ye  hearts  that  sing, 

Smite  silvery  lutes  against  Oblivion's  ban! 
Say  how  for  honor's  sake  there  stood  a  King, 

Albert  of  Belgium,  soldier,  monarch,  man! 


l49l 


THE  RETURN 

HOME  across  the  clover 
When  the  war  was  over 
Came  the  young  men  slowly  with  an  air  of  being 

old, 

On  a  morning  blue  and  gold 
Through  the  weed-grown  meadow-places 
Marched  young  soldiers  with  old  faces, 
Marched  the  columns  of  the  Emperor  with  dull, 

bewildered  eyes, 

And  the  day  was  like  a  rose  upon  the  skies; 
But  they  feared  both  light  and  life, 
Feared  the  aftermath  of  strife. 
Slow  they  came — 

Now  that  it  was  over — 
Silent  and  sick  and  lame, 

Home  across  the  clover. 

A  woman  knelt  in  a  garden  by  the  road, 
Patting  a  little  mound  of  earth 
[SO] 


With  aimless  hands.     Along  the  highway  flowed 
The  gray  tide,  while  the  day  was  at  its  birth. 
She  heard  the  drums,  looked  up,  half  smiled: 
"Why  do  you  march,"  she  said,  "and  play  at 

soldiers? 

There's  none  to  laugh  at  you — no  little  child! 
Not  one.    They've  all  gone  back  to  sleeping." 
She  fell  to  awful  weeping. 
"Why  do  you  play  at  soldiers?" 
Then  dropped  down 

To  pat  the  little  grave.     The  line  went  on  and 
on  into  the  town. 

They  saw  it  first  in  the  city's  eyes, 

Old  men  grouped  by  their  fright,  ran  here  and  there 
In  startled  herds,  with  shrill  unmeaning  cries. 

And  there  was  white  in  every  woman's  hair, 
And  when  a  window  yielded  them  a  face 

'Twas  like  a  flower  blasted  by  the  sun; 

Children  there  were  none. 
The  world  seemed  robbed  of  joyousness  and  grace, 

A  young  girl  with  a  head  of  snow 
Sat  weaving  garlands  in  the  market-place 

With  hands  unearthly  slow, 
[Si] 


As  though  her  toil  must  be 
The  very  measure  of  eternity. 
A  boy  ran  from  the  ranks,  stooped,  touched  her 
brow; 

"Mar got,  M argot!    Is  it  thou?" 

She  did  not  glance  up  at  the  white-faced  lad. 

Deep  in  the  gray  line  rang  a  sudden  shout: 
''They're  mad!     They're  mad!" 

"Silence,  you  dogs,  until  you're  mustered  out. 
Forward,  to  greet  the  Emperor!" 

The  line 
Wavered  and  moaned  and  stumbled  through  the 

town 

Like  some  dark  serpent  with  a  broken  spine. 
Before  the  palace  gate,  in  cloak  and  crown, 
A  shriveled  figure  sat  with  shaking  hands, 
Forming  toy  soldiers  into  various  bands. 
A  figure  in  a  jeweled  diadem, 

Who  as  the  swords  leaped  with  a  ringing  noise, 
Lifted  his  wasted  eyes  and  looked  at  them. 
"Ah!"  said  the  Emperor,  and  smiled: 
"More  toys!" 


POEMS    OF    PANAMA 


THE  SACK  OF  OLD  PANAMA 


THEY  sat  in  a  tavern  in  wicked  Port  Royal, 
Grim  Morgan  and  Brodley  and  one  or  two  others, 

A  flagon  of  rum  on  the  table  between  them 
And  villainy  binding  them  closer  than  brothers. 

And  Morgan  dropped  hint  of  Old  Panama's  riches; 

Said  little,  but  said  it  with  evil  suggestion, 
Till  Brodley  swayed  up,  with  his  glass  in  his  fingers, 

And  swore  that  a  Don  was  an  aid  to  digestion! 

But    Morgan    said,    idly,    "'Twould    be    a    long 

journey" — 
Cried  Brodley:  "What  odds,  when  the  end  of  it's 

yellow  ? 

I  mind  me  the  pockets  of  dead  men  I  lightened 
That  year  of  our  Lord  when  we  sacked  Porto 
Bello!" 

[551 


Then  Morgan  stood  straight,  with  his  face  of  dark 

smiling: 
"I'll  rake  them  once  more — then  I'll  stop  all 

such  capers; 
Come  home  and  be  Governor!     Aye,  but  I  will, 

though, 

And   hang  every  master  that  can't  show   his 
papers. 

"I'll  have  me  a  house  that  will  front  the  blue 

water, 

And  devil  a  pirate  shall  sit  at  my  table; 
But    now,   and    once    more,    I've    a    will    to    go 

courting, 

To  dance  with   a  Don  while  I'm   hearty  and 
able." 

He  laughed,  and  drew  breath;    and  they  tipped 

up  the  flagon, 

And  fashioned  his  words  in  a  stormy  sea  ditty. 
Then    swiftly   fell    silent,   with   dream  -  darkened 

faces, 

And  thought  of  their  hands  at  the  throat  of  a 
city.  .  .  . 

[56] 


Said  Morgan,  "You,  Brodley,  will  take  San 
Lorenzo" — 

"  I'll  take  it,"  he  cried,  "  as  a  man  takes  a  woman, 
With  bullets  for  billets-doux!  Aye,  and  for  kisses 

The  lips  of  my  sword  on  the  face  of  the  foeman!" 

'"Od's  blood,"  spat  a  third,  "'twill  be  glorious 

wooing," 

They  lifted  their  glasses  and  smote  them  together. 
"A  health,"  roared  a  fourth,  "to  all  lovers  of  cities!" 
Said   Morgan  the   Pirate,    "God   send   us   fair 
weather." 

II 

The  sea  was  as  blue  as  the  breast  of  the  morning 
When  Morgan  went  down  to  his  last  bucaneering; 

His  sails  were  like  low-fallen  clouds  in  the  distance, 
Blown  onward,  and  fading,  and  slow  disappearing. 

And  so  he  put  out — and  was  part  of  the  distance, 
A  blur  of  slow  wings  on  the  blue  ring  of  heaven, 
With  two  thousand  devils  adream  below  hatches, 
And  steel,  and  dry  powder,  and  ships  thirty- 
seven. 

[571 


And   all  down  the  decks  there  was  talk  of  the 

venture — 

How  Morgan  had  wind  of  unthinkable  treasure; 
How  Panama's  streets  were  the  sweetness  of  silver, 
Where  men  in   gold   gutters  threw   pearls   for 
their  pleasure! 

And  Brodley  went  forward  and  took  San  Lorenzo, 
With  patience  and  passion,  as  men  take  a  woman, 

And  Morgan  came  up,  with  his  face  of  dark  smiling, 
And  saw  the  sword's  kiss  on  the  heart  of  the 
foeman. 

Said    Brodley:    "The    dead    are    asleep    in    their 

trenches, 
But  we  must  press  on,  with  our  Dream  and 

our  devils" — 
He    spat    to    the    southward.     "There's    war    in 

those  mountains, 

Red  death  in  the  hills,  and  white  plague  on  the 
levels." 

But  Morgan  was  smiling.  .  .  .  "The  end  of  it's 

yellow; 

A  fortune  for  each,  and  for  each  his  desire!" 
[58] 


Below  them  his  men  stood  with  dark  upturned 

faces, 
And  naked  swords  turning  the  twilight  to  fire. . . . 

And  Brodley  laughed,  softly:  "For  each  his  heart's 
fortune — 

Aye,  aye,  let's  get  on  to  the  end  of  our  wooing. 
For  life  is  the  sweetest  when  set  to  adventure, 

And  gold  lies  ahead — and  the  interest's  accruing." 

The  dawn  saw  them  marching — twelve  hundred 

brown  devils, 
With  steel  and  dry  powder  and  gay  crimson 

sashes; 
And  so  they  put  on  ...  and  were  dead  in  the 

jungle 
Of  great  shaking  fevers  and  little  barbs'  gashes. . . 

The  remnant  toiled  on  at  the  heels  of  a  vision, 
While  death  strode  behind  them,  a  scant  twenty 

paces — 

And  many  fell  down,  with  a  last  bitter  laughter, 
And   buzzards  flapped  in,   and  made  holes  in 
their  faces. 

I  591 


The    tenth    day   was    sleeping    in    tents    of    red 

splendor 
When   Morgan   crept   up   to   the  walls  of  the 

city — 
Behind    him    his    madmen    came    shouting    and 

sobbing, 
And  mouthing  the  words  of  an  old  pirate  ditty. 

Their  souls  were  in  tatters!    And  still  they  came 

singing, 
Till  all  the  hushed  foreland  was  waked  from  its 

dreaming, 
And    high    in    their    towers    the    sweet    bells    of 

vesper 

Were    drowned    and    made   dim    by   the    mad, 
measured  screaming. 

A  gun  roared,  and  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  city 
Wild  pulses  began.  ...  A  young  mother  ran 

crying, 
"  The  English  are  on  us!"    Swords  silvered  the 

twilight, 

And  priests  turned  their  books  to  the  prayers 
for  the  dying. 

[60] 


Then    out    from    his   gates    came    the    desperate 

Spaniard; 
The  swords  were  like  flame,  and  the  towers  were 


ringing 


But  Morgan's  men  waited;   lay  down  with  choked 

muzzles, 

And  dealt  out  their  death  to  the  pulse  of  their 
singing. 

Their  volleys  belched  forth  like  a  chorus  of  thunder, 
A  great  whining  Song  that  went  on  without  pity, 

Till  night  drew  her  veil  .  .  .  then  they  rose  from 

their  bellies, 
And  spat  at  the  dead — and  went  into  the  city. 


HI 

High  noon.     In  the  house  of  a  wealthy  dead  Senor 
Sat  Morgan  and  Brodley — and  none  to  disturb 

them. 
The  world  from  their  window  was  blood  to  the 

heavens — 

Sighed  Morgan,  "I  fear  me  that  nothing  will 
curb  them." 

[61] 


He  stared  at  the  stain  in  the  sky  to  the  westward : 
"They've  fired  the  church  of  St.  Something-or- 

Other. 
Much  good  may  it  do  them!     I  called  there  at 

daybreak 

And   borrowed   the  keys  from   a  little   brown 
brother!" 

He  grinned,  and  made  free  with  a  fat-bellied  bottle. 

(Below,  in  his  cellars,  the  master  lay  tumbled, 

A  knife  in  his  throat — and   beyond  the  barred 

window 

The    voices    of    drunken    men    gathered    and 
rumbled.) 

A  sailor  lurched  by,  and  stared  in  at  the  casement, 

A  screaming  dark  woman  flung  up  at  his  shoulder; 

The  crowd  knitted  swiftly  behind  him.  .  .  .  Said 

Brodley: 

"They've   found   you,   by   gad!    And   I   think 
they've  grown  bolder." 

The  murmur  swelled  hoarsely;   a  stone  struck  the 

window, 

And  Morgan  was  up,  with  an  oath  for  the  clatter. 
[62] 


"The  dogs!    They  want  treasure!     It's  iron  I'll 

give  them — 

Fling    open    the    port    there — we'll    argue    the 
matter." 

A  painted  blue  balcony  hung  at  the  window, 
Hung  over  the  street,  like  a  lip  thrust  for  sneering; 

And  Morgan  stepped  out  and  stood  silent  above 

them, 
His  hand  at  his  belt  and  his  little  eyes  leering. 

The  hot  clamor  died  ...  he  leaned  down  in  the 

stillness. 
"Well,    gentlemen,   well?    Have   you    business 

with  Morgan?" 

His  words  caused  a  murmur,  confused  and  un- 
meaning, 

That  passed  like  the  sob  in  the  heart  of  an 
organ — 

"What  then?    Are  you  bashful ?"    A  sudden  voice 

lifted: 

"Ask  Blackie,  the  Bo'sun,  sir.     He'll  answer  for 
us; 

[63] 


He  says  to  divide  it — the  gold  and  the  jewels.1* 
"Aye,  aye,"  roared  the  crowd  in  a  wild  drunken 
chorus. 

The  Bo'sun  stepped   forward,  a  bold  man  made 

bolder 
By  rum  and  crowd-courage:   "We  think  we've 

been  cheated. 
We   want   our   just    share    of   the    loot    an*   the 

treasure, 
It's  my  notion,  sir,  we've  been  shabbily  treated !" 

Then  Morgan  stooped  down,  with  his  right  hand 

extended, 
And  smiled  at  the  fellow;    smiled  gently — and 

fired. 
The  shot  roared  and  died  .  .  .  the  brave  Bo'sun 

fell  kicking, 
And  lay  on  his  face  as  though  woefully  tired. 

"My  answer!"  said  Morgan.     His  face  darkened 

slowly : 

"Get  back  now,  you  dogs,  to  your  drinking  and 
pleasure. 

[64] 


We  march  at  the  dawn  .  .  .  and  you've  ten  days  of 

jungle! 

'Tis  those  who  live  through  it  may  talk  of  the 
treasure." 

He   turned    and    went    in    through    the    window. 

Said  Brodley, 
"You're   iron!"     But    Morgan    stood    absently 

scowling. 

"I've  counted  the  loot,  and  there's  not  enough  in  it, 
With  our  shares  deducted,  to  stop  those  wolves 
howling." 

He  snatched  up  the  bottle:  "Good  health  and  fair 

fortune; 
A   glass   to   our   safe   return.     Come,  lad,   and 

drink  it. 

This  pirating  pays — if  you  captain  the  pirates! 
We'll   put  back  to   port,   and   buy  life   like   a 
trinket." 

IV 

'Twas  night;  and  the  stars  were  in  silver  for  sleeping; 
Across  the  stilled  water  the  dim  ships  lay  molded 
5  [6S] 


In  darkness,  pricked  out  by  their  yellowing  port 

lights, 

And  on  the  blurred  masts  the  great  sails  hung 
half  folded. 

The  fleet  drowsed  at  anchor.  .  .  .  The  wind  in  the 

cross-trees 

Sang  light  as  a  woman,  and  lazily  threading 
The    forest   of   spars  came  at  last   to   the    flag- 
ship 

And  there  met  the  cheek  of  the  mainsail  out- 
spreading! 

Up  quietly,  then,  like  a  startled  bird's  pinions, 
Went  Morgan's  sly  wings,  till  the  stars  were  all 

blotted 

With  bellying  silver;    and  so  she  crept  seaward 
With  no  lights  to  speak  her,  and  guns  double- 
shotted.  > 

And  Morgan  leaned  down  from  his  place  at  the 

taffrail, 

And  smiled  at  each  ship  that  went  by  in  the 
smother.  .  .  . 

[66] 


All  down  the  dim  deck  his  spent  devils  lay  grinning, 
As  glad  for  the  sea  as  a  babe  for  its  mother! 

Afar  on  the  headland  the  camp-fires  spattered 
The  hem  of  the  dark,   and   the  shore  in  full 

measure 
Was    lifted,    and    bloodied,    and    stained    against 

heaven, 

Where  Morgan's  mad  armies  sat  counting  their 
treasure. 

But  Morgan  laughed  long  ...  for  his  ship  was 

heeled  over 
With  strong-handed  sea  winds,  and  down  the 

lee  railing 
The  sudden  white  foamed  as  she  trod  the  long 

furrow, 

And  none  but  the  stars  knew  that  Morgan  was 
sailing! 

And  Brodley  came  up  from  the  waist,  breathing 

deeply: 

"We're  out!     Smell  the  sea!    Gad,  they'll  curse 
us  to-morrow." 

[67] 


"Nay,    lad,    I've    but    lifted    ill-luck    from    their 

shoulders, 

For   riches   breed   woe — and    I've   saved   them 
much  sorrow!" 

Their  laughter  was  lost  in  the  loud  talking  water. 
Behind  them  the  world  waned,  and  all  the  great 

fires 

Were  littled  to  candle-flame!     Only  in  heaven 
The  stars  held  the  lamps  of  their  ancient  de- 
sires. , 


The  Governor  sat  in  his  window  at  evening, 
His  window  that  looked  on  the  star-furrowed 

water; 

A  ship  had  come  into  the  clasp  of  the  harbor, 
Clear-lined  from  the  darkness  the  bright  moon 
had  wrought  her. 

She  strode  with  white  sails,  like   a  ghost  in  a 

shadow, 

Came  up  at  her  chain,  and  stood  nosing  the 
bubbles. 

[68] 


Afar  at  his  window  Sir  Thomas  leaned  breathless, 
Forgetting  the  brood  of  a  Governor's  troubles. 

"He's  in — and  alone.     What  a  fox!    What  a  devil 

To  do  what  he  said  he'd  do!     Now  for  the  profit 

That  swells  the  King's  coffers.     Egad!  there's  a 

fortune 

In  wearing  a  crown — an  you  know  when  to  doff 
it!" 

He  clapped  his  fat  hands;    and  a  black  lad  stood 

bowing. 
"Bring  candles — and  rum,"  said  the  Governor, 

grinning. 

And  then  he  sat  down  with  his  boots  on  the  table, 
And  dozed  until  Morgan  should  come  from  his 
sinning  .... 

He  came,  with  an  oath,  in  his  great  greasy  sea- 
boots, 

A  sash  at  his  waist,  and  a  pistol  stuck  in  it, 
His  beard  to  his  throat,  and  his  little  eyes  leering — 
"Your  voice,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  "is  sweet  as  a 
linnet!" 

[69] 


"My  pockets  are  sweeter,"  said  Morgan;    and, 

winking, 
He  drew  from  his  sash  a  creased  bag  of  black 

leather, 

Unloosed  it  and  spilled  on  the  bare  wooden  table 
Red  jewels  that  kindled  like  swords  struck  to- 
gether! 

"There's  blood  and  men's  souls — and  the  price  of 

a  kingdom; 
Take  half,  and  let's  drink.     God!    I'm  dry  to 

the  marrow — " 
He   caught   up   the   flagon   of  rum  .  .  .  but  Sir 

Thomas 

Sat  fondling  the  gems,  and  his  eyes  had  grown 
narrow. 

"They're  perfect!    They're  wonderful!"     "Aye," 

said  the  Pirate, 
"I  bought  them  with  dead  men — but  that's  a 

long  story. 
Come,  count  the  Crown's  share,  and  we'll  drink 

to  the  bargain, 

These  trinkets  are  turning  unpleasantly  gory/' 
[70] 


The  jewels  lay  warm  in  the  dusk  of  the  candles, 
Like  soulless  red  eyes  that  no  tears  might  set 

blinking  .  .  . 
And    Thomas    Sir    Modyford    crooked    his    hot 

fingers, 

And  chose  the  King's  profit,  whilst  Morgan  sat 
drinking. 

"Sweet  baubles!    Sweet  pretties!    They've  blinded 

my  candles. 
They're   flame,    Pirate,   flame!    See  my  hand, 

how  they've  burned  it." 
He  laughed,   and   drew  forth  from  his  pocket  a 

parchment — 

"It's  yours,  by  our  bargain;  and  damme,  you've 
earned  it." 

They  spread  out  the  parchment  between  them. 

Said  Morgan: 
"God's  name!     I'm  respectable!"     "Aye,"  said 

Sir  Thomas, 

"You're  Leftenant-Governor,  lately  appointed 
By    will   of  the   Crown — in    accord    with    our 
promise!" 


VI 

Day  broke  .  .  .  and  the  throat  of  the  harbor  was 

clouded 

With  sail.     'Twas  the  fleet  of  the  pirates  re- 
turning— 
But    down    their   grim    ports    no    black    muzzles 

peered  frowning, 
Nor  naked  steel  leaped  for  the  dawn  to  set  burning. 

They  came  as  calm  merchantmen,  shriven  with 

morning 

(For  in  the   King's  harbors  the  law  is  hard- 
fisted!) 
And  so  they  stole  in,  like  whipped  hounds  to  a 

kennel, 

Their  loosed  anchors  lolling  like  tongues  when 
they  listed. 

The  candles  were  dead  in  the  Governor's  chamber; 
And  in  at  the  window  the  young  light  came 

creeping — 

Asprawl  at  the  table  sat  Morgan  the  Pirate, 
And  under  his  boot-heels  Sir  Thomas  lay  sleeping. 
[72] 


The  anchors  splashed   down  in  the   ruffled   blue 

water, 
The  great  wings  were  furled  with  a  rattle  of 

gearing; 

But  Morgan  sat  clutching  a  folded  gray  parchment, 
A  glass  at  his  lips,  and  his  little  eyes  leering. 


[73l 


THE  VISION 

"WHAT  did  you  see  in  Panama, 

Voyager  with  the  eye  of  dream?" 
"7  saw  the  squat  dredge  breathing  in  the  dawn, 

And  the  great  white  breaths  of  steam — 

"/  saw  the  dim  amazement  of  the  hills, 
And  the  red  suns  burning; 

And    the    long,   long    trains    of    laborers    at    dusk 
returning. 

"7  saw  fair  ships  beyond  Balboa's  gates 

That  waited  for  the  morrow, 

And  I  saw  a  man  go  by  me  with  a  face  of  sorrow." 

"What  did  you  see  in  Panama, 

Broken  hills  and  a  breath  of  steam?" 

"  That,  and  the  long,  long  trains  of  laborers, 
And  a  man's  face  touched  with  dream!" 

[74] 


PANAMA  CITY 

Blue  balconies,  dust  and  old  silence, 

The  patter  of  naked  brown  feet; 
And  the  sea  caught  in  sudden  cool  glimpses 

At  the  ends  of  the  shimmering  street. 

A  maze  of  thin  highways  that  wander, 
And  turn  with  a  thousand  desires, 

Till  they  come  to  the  Square  in  the  twilight, 
And  the  little  lit  fires — 

Till  they  come  to  the  Square  and  the  laughter, 
And  the  little  gold  lamps  in  the  trees — 

And  the  drift  of  the  strange  burning  faces 
Cast  in  from  the  seas; 

And  the  throb  of  the  lovely  slow  waltzes, 
And  the  narrow  gay  sidewalks  aswirl, 

(For  the  heart  of  a  city  is  music, 
Like  the  heart  of  a  girl) — 
[751 


iAnd  there,  at  the  edge  of  the  twilight, 
They  turn  from  their  gipsy  unrest, 

And  sleep  in  the  wind  of  the  waltzes, 
With  the  feet  on  their  breast. 

Blue  balconies,  dust  and  old  silence, 
And  naked  strange  faces  that  stream — 

And  somewhere  a  ghost  in  the  shadow, 
And  the  sense  of  a  long-vanished  dream. 


[76] 


THE  HOSPITAL 


ON  the  green  hill,  above  the  breathless  town, 
They  built  a  House  of  Hope  and  Death,  and 

there, 
Tracing  the  white  road  through  the  flame-fringed 

dusk, 
They  dragged  their  broken  bodies  for  repair. 

All  down  the  Work  the  word  went  whispering: 
"Upon     the    high    hill    stands    the    House    of 
Hope!" 

And  the  white  hands  were  many  in  the  dusk, 
And  the  slow  feet  fell  throbbing  on  the  slope! 

They  were  the  Builders,  broken  at  their  task; 

The  wounded  and  the  dying,  and  they  came, 
Each  with  his  separate  cross  upon  his  soul — 

But  none  cried,  "Holy,  holy!"  at  their  name. 
[77l 


None  saw  the  thorns  upon  their  sweating  brows, 
Nor  heard  their  spent  souls  crying  through  the 
dawns; 

To  you  and  me,  Fat  Citizen,  it  was 
Only  a  needed  sacrifice  of  pawns! 


ii 

I  saw  them  at  the  windows  of  their  House, 
Hopeful  and  Hopeless,  all  the  wistful-eyed, 

Watching  the  far,  faint  sails  along  the  sky, 
Their  eyes  upon  the  distance  till  they  died. 

Below  them  was  the  endless  shining  sea, 

And  the  great  moons  rode  up  behind  the  hill; 

But  they  sat  at  their  windows,  wistful-eyed, 
And  on  their  knees  their  knotted    hands   lay 
still. 

They  could  not  laugh  at  twilight  and  go  free, 

Nor  lie  with  pleasure,  nor  go  up  to  fame, 
They  were  but  Workmen,  wounded  unto  death, 
Poor  pawns  that  died   to  speed  the   Master's 
game. 

[78] 


At  evening  wound  the  noisy  work-trains  home, 
And   labor  ceased,  and   love   ran  through   the 

town; 

But  they  were  only  Faces  in  the  dusk, 
They    could    not    don    their    laughter   and    go 
down. 


[79] 


THE  OLD  PRISON 

Now  where  the  blue  Pacific  spends 

Its  wealth  of  sapphire  at  the  gray  sea-wall 

They  made  a  prison;    and  along  its  foot 
Watched  the  slow  sea-tides  crawl; 

But  stabbing  deeper  than  the  tides, 

Down  through  the  solid  masonry  they  made 

A  dreadful  thing;    a  cell  both  deep  and  dark, 
Where  the  blue  water  played. 

And  there  they  placed  their  evilest, 

At  ebb-hour,  when  the  purring  tides  were  low- 
(Almost  I  heard  the  fearful  cries  he  made 

Who  knew  that  he  must  go! 

Almost  I  saw  his  stricken  face, 

And  that  curled,  cruel  smiling  of  the  guard; 
Almost  I  heard  the  moaning  of  his  friends 

Who  walked  the  grass-grown  yard.) 
[80] 


They  took  him  out  when  all  the  sky 

Was  flushed  with  morning,  and  the  sea  was  down. 

Into  his  ears  was  borne  the  matin  chime 
Of  church-bells  from  the  town — 

But  he  was  dark  with  agony, 

And  from  his  foot  there  dragged  an  iron  ball; 
A  dozen  steps  across  the  sweet  green  grass, 

Then  shrieking  to  the  wall, 

And  there  they  seized  him  in  their  hands, 

And  cast  him  like  a  dead  thing  to  the  dark — 

About  the  yard  his  friends  stood  rigidly, 
With  faces  still  and  stark. 

His  dull  cries  died  behind  the  stone, 
Then,  smiling  their  curled  smiles,  his  keepers  took 

Fresh  mortar  and  sealed  out  the  last  small  light, 
As  men  might  close  a  book. 

Anon  the  tides  rose  at  the  wall, 

Rose  softly,  gently,  seeping  through  the  stone.  .  .  . 
To-day  as  I  was  walking  in  that  place, 

I  found  a  crumbled  bone. 
6  [81] 


THE  CANAL 

THE  linked  worlds  stand  in  wonder  at  their  bond, 
The  nations  quicken  and  the  two  seas  stir — 

The  waiting  spars  make  mist  along  the  East. 
It  is  the  triumph  of  a  Laborer! 

The  wonder  is  the  wonder  of  a  soul, 

A  heart  that  dreamed  in  terms  of  continents, 

A  hand  that  wrought  with  mountains  and  with 

seas, 
A  warrior  with  no  murder  in  his  tents. 

Oh,  there  are  poems  in  the  clang  of  steel! 

And  mayhap  there  are  songs  to  sing  of  steam. 
Let  others  cry  the  glory  of  the  deed, 

I  only  see  the  Dreamer  and  the  Dream. 


[82] 


GAYHEART 


GAYHEART 

A   STORY   OF   DEFEAT 

I 

GAYHEART  came  in  June,  I  saw  his  heels 
Go  through  the  door,  and  broken  heels  they  were. 

His  eyes  were  big,  and  blue,  and  young.     He  said, 
"Could  you  direct  me  to  the  Basement,  Sir?" 

I  knew  the  Basement;    I  had  grubbed  there  once 
Before  a  client  tumbled  in  my  net 

And  brought  me  riches.     It  was  coffin-cold 
And  on  its  bare  walls  seeped  a  moldy  sweat. 

Twas  next  the  kitchen,  too,  and  had  the  breath 

Of  cheap  things  cooking — but  I  led  him  down. 
The  stairs  dropped  naked  through  the  clammy 

dark- 
He  paused,  and  gasped,  as  men  do  when  they 
drown. 

[8S] 


"Is  it  down  there?"     I  turned  and  took  his  arm 
(Thin  as  a  boy's  it  was;    all  skin  and  bone); 

I  said:    "The  dark  is  just  a  pleasant  cloak 
To  veil  you  off,  and  keep  your  thoughts  alone. 

"A  Boarding-house  is  all-inquisitive; 

You're  safer  here."     "How  did  you  know,"  he 

said, 
"That  I  would  want  to  be  alone?    Am  I 

An  open  book  to  be  so  simply  read?" 

We  stumbled  down  until  I  felt  the  door 

Beneath  my  fingers.    Then  I  struck  a  light — 

The  room  grinned  at  us  like  an  ugly  face 

Caught  in  a  heart-beat  from  the  cloak  of  night. 

The  boy's  breath  cracked  his  lips.     I  saw  his  soul 
Stand  in  his  eyes,  and  look,  and  shrink  again, 

Sick  with  the  moment's  shattered  visionings, 
And  on  his  face  went  the  slow  feet  of  pain. 

"It  strikes  you  bleak,  eh?    Come,  it's  not  so  bad. 

The  gas  won't  whimper  if  you  turn  it  low. 
The  bed  is  lame,  but  friendly.     Here's  a  desk 

To  scribble  at."     He  said:   "I  write,  you  know. 
[86] 


"I've  come  to  be  a  writer."     And  he  smiled, 
As  boys  do  when  they  say  their  heart's  desire; 

"I'm  from  the  South — a  paper  took  me  on, 
But  that's  just  keeping  fagots  in  my  fire." 

He  smiled  again,  for  he  had  all  his  youth 
To  smile  from.     "My  real  work,"  he  said, "will  be 

To  sketch  the  city — not  in  prosy  books, 
But  in  its  native,  living  poetry. 

"Cities  were  made  for  measures  and  for  rhyme, 
They  have  an  ancient  minstrelsy  of  feet, 

And  rivers  sweep  their  shipping  like  a  song, 
And  there  is  endless  music  in  a  street. 

"Endless,  I  say,  and  never  caught  by  man. 

Your  books?    Ah,  how  they  walk,  walk,  walk, 

with  words; 
But  verse  runs  on  light  feet,  as  Cities  do — 

O  God,  I've  dreamed  it  till  it  hurts  like  swords 

"Not  to  be  writing;    but  I've  got  to  learn, 
Learn,  learn  it  all — the  streets,  the  parks,  the 
ships, 

[87] 


The  subway  and  the  skyscrapers!"     He  stopped 
And  brushed  his  hand  across  his  trembling  lips. 

"Excuse  me,  sir.     You  were  the  first  kind  soul 
I'd  spoken  to — the  rest  are  like  the  tomb." 

He  smiled   and  touched  my  hand;    and  then  I 

turned, 
Leaving  him  standing  in  his  wistful  room. 


II 


June  passed,  and  weather  came  that  seared  our 

flesh. 
The  soft  streets  crawled;  old  men  dropped  down 

and  died; 

Within  the  House  our  summer  tempers  snarled, 
And  every  night  the  lady  boarder  cried. 

Her  alcove  shouldered  mine — and  so  I  knew. 
She  came  at  six,  her  feet  as  slow  as  lead 
Dragged  through  her  door,  and  cried  till  supper- 
time. 

I  never  saw  her  but  her  eyes  were  red. 
[88] 


Poor  Gayheart  whitened  slowly,  till  his  face 
Was  like  the  paper  that  he  scribbled  on. 

But  he  had  youth,  and  some  vague  bravery 
That  held  him  taut  until  his  task  was  done. 

He  rasped  our  nerves,  though,  with  his  restless 
ways, 

His  restless,  silent  ways.  ...  He  never  seemed 
To  see  us  when  we  passed  him  in  the  hall — 

His  eyes  were  distant  with  the  thing  he  dreamed. 

He  bolted  dinner  like  a  dog,  as  though 

He  feared  his  fate  would  snatch  him  unaware 

With  all  his  dreams  unproved — then,  starting  up, 
Would  grope  the  shadowed  hallway  to  the  stair, 

And  down  to  his  eternal  folderol,   • 

His  spitting  gaslight  and  his  scratching  pen, 

Until  we  cursed  him  for  his  industry, 

His  being  different  from  the  ruck  of  men. 

Then  one  dead  night  when  all  the  stars  did  sweat 
He  plucked  my  sleeve,  and  smiled,  and  drew  me 
down 

[89] 


His  damned  black  stairs.     Then,  while  the  clogged 

jet  whined, 
He  read  me  what  he'd  written  of  the  Town. 

It  struck  me  wonderful.     It  had  the  ache 
Of  rush-hour  traffic  in  it,  and  the  swing 

Of  wheels,  as  though  he'd  listened  in  a  street, 
A  crowded  street  where  life  ran  thundering.  .  .  . 

It  made  me  think  of  going  to  my  work; 

Of  men  in  crowds,  and  women's  faces  drawn 
With   painted   lines,    and    shops   and    ships    and 
spires 

And  skyscrapers  that  reached  up  for  the  dawn. 

And  then  beneath  the  step  of  rhyme  I  heard 
The  boy's  soul  speaking.  .  .  .  And  I  knew  that 
he 

Had  spent  himself  like  dust  among  the  crowd 
To  catch  the  heart-beat  for  his  poetry. 

His  voice  went  out  like  flame.     I  found  myself 
Shocked   by  the  still,   small   room.     To  me  it 
seemed 

[90] 


Great  throngs  had  passed  with  various  noise.     He 

said: 

"That's  just   the   gateway   to  the   thing   I've 
dreamed !" 

HI 

There  is  a  street's  end,  where  the  coasters  sleep, 
And  there,  at  twilight,  purple  waters  run, 

And  o'er  their  breast  the  crimson-coated  day 
Trails  the  last  silver  of  the  fallen  sun. 

A  wall  is  there,  for  men  to  dream  upon; 

And  so  young  Gayheart  went,  with  all  his  scars 
Unhealed  .  .  .  and  saw  the  lights  sown  through 
the  dusk, 

And  his  tall  city  in  a  cloak  of  stars. 

Tier  upon  tier  the  golden  windows  burned, 
As  though  man  sought  new  freedom  in  the  skies; 

And  somehow,  lured  by  starlight  and  by  dawn, 
Built  his  blind  cities  up  to  paradise! 

Afar  the  bridges  spun  their  silver  webs, 

The  mellow  whistles  talked  along  the  stream; 
[91] 


But  Gayheart  leaned  athirst  upon  a  stone, 
Hurt  with  the  shining  beauty  of  his  dream. 

And  he  was  like  a  child  with  wistfulness, 

Holding  his  hands  out  through  the  summer  night, 

Where  in  the  dusk  the  great,  clean  towers  flared, 
Like  swords  thrust  up  in  some  red  battle-light! 

And  then  he  turned,  all  dumb  with  his  desire, 
And   stumbled   through    still   streets,    until   he 
found 

The  great  bridge  trembling  underfoot  and  heard 
The  trains  go  by  him  with  a  tempest  sound. 

Black,  shapeless  forms  came  shrieking  with  bright 
eyes; 

The  sea-wind  rolled  like  drums  against  his  ears, 
And  he  was  singing,  singing  as  he  trod, 

And  in  his  eyes  were  sudden,  smarting  tears. 

The  tallest  spire  enraptured  him!    He  strode 
Under  the  roofed  bridge,  where  the  newsboys  cry, 

And  out  into  that  little  breathing-space 
From  whence  the  windows  go  into  the  sky. 
[92] 


And  there  he  sought  a  bench  and  sat  him  down, 
Between  two  snoring  vagabonds,  who  lay 

Sprawled  on  their  faces,  .  .  .  but  his  wakefulness 
Was  like  a  lamp  within  him  till  the  day. 


What  did  it  mean?  the  stone  flung  like  a  song? 

The  desk-light  brothering  the  star?    The  whole 
Up-sweep  of  roofs  that  is  our  native  land — 

What  meaning  had  it,  and  what  secret  soul? 

He  sat  with  upturned  eyes,  as  young  men  do, 
Until  the  lamp  upon  his  face  grew  wan;    • 

He  saw  his  nation  toiling  in  its  House, 

Its  tall,  strange  House  that  reached  up  for  the 
dawn! 

\  And  dreaming,  saw  the  Elder  Worlds  asleep 
\     In  their  low  houses,  beautiful  with  Time.  .  .  . 
The  vagrant  at  his  left  side  groaned  and  breathed, 
Lifting  a  face  of  cumulative  grime — 

"What's  in  yer  gizzard,  lad,  that  twists  ye  so? 
I  know!    You're  one  of  them  wot's  got  a  brain! 
[93] 


Now  me — "     His  brother  raised  a  blowzy  head: 
"Aw,  hell!"  he  snarled,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

Across  the  roofs  the  first,  faint  gold  of  dawn 
Streaked  the  dun  heavens,  and  the  Day  Men 
took 

The  windows  of  the  sleepless,  so  that  life 
Went  smoothly  like  a  never-written  book. 

And  Gayheart  shook  the  cramps  from  his  dull 
limbs, 

Rose  and  went  up  the  paper's  curling  stair 
Until  he  reached  the  City  Room.     The  Staff, 

Half  stripped  of  cloth,  already  sweated  there. 

But  he  dropped  at  his  crazy,  limping  desk, 
In  the  dim  corner  where  the  gubs  are  kept, 

And  wrote:    "America  is  wakefulness!" 

And  fell  face  down  upon  the  words,  and  slept. 

IV 

Gayheart's  book  came  back,  and  back  again, 
And  still  he  mailed  it  out,  with  little  lies 
[94] 


To  cloak  its  failure — but  I  think  we  saw 
The  naked,  frightened  soul  behind  his  eyes. 

The  lady  boarder  knew.     I  heard  her  say 

A   cruel    thing.     "Your    book   is    home,"    she 
said, 

"For  Sunday  dinner."     But  he  passed  her  by 
Without  the  slightest  turning  of  his  head. 

She  hated  him.  .  .  .  And  so  mid-autumn  fell, 
With  no  abating  coolness.     Each  new  sun 

Was  like  a  murderer  let  out  of  locks, 
And  life  went  sickly,  praying  to  be  done. 

A  night  fell  when  all  sleep  was  vain.  ...  I  rose 
And  stumbled  to  the  windowful  of  stars, 

That  was   my   share  of  heaven.    .    .    .    There  I 

stood 
Letting  the  soft  night  seep  into  my  scars. 

The  window  opened  on  a  little  court, 
And  suddenly  a  feeble  thrust  of  flame 

Stabbed  like  a  pettish  dagger  through  the  dark, 
Out  of  the  night  a  ragged  breathing  came. 
[951 


»  .  .  I  saw  the  Basement  boarder  stooping  down, 
His  lean  face  bloodied  with  the  touch  of  light. 

A  tongue  of  fire  licked  his  hands  .  .  .  and  died, 
Brief  as  the  flutter  of  a  star  in  flight. 

Somehow  I  sensed  a  tragedy.  .  .  .  The  gloom 
Was  like  a  grave,  the  light  leaped  up  no  more. 

I  turned  and  groped  down  through  the  breathless 

house; 
Until  I  saw  him  crouching  by  his  door. 

He  stood  there,  staring  at  his  empty  hands 
As  though  they'd   done  his  dearest  dream  to 

death; 
The  palms  were  soiled  and  smeared  with  paper 

ash; 
There  was  a  reek  of  whisky  on  his  breath. 

"What's  this?"  I  said.     He  raised  his  head  and 

smiled 
With    a    deep    drunkenness    that    touched    his 

soul. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is!     I've  been  a  fool — 
The  sort  of  fool  that  makes  a  dream  his  goal. 
[96] 


"I've  worked  my  heart  out;  done  a  decent  thing — 
And  no  one  wants  it!     No  one  wants  to  look 

Beneath  the  surface  of  this  world  of  ours. 
It's  all  damned   artifice.  .  .  .  I've  burned   my 
book." 

Even  to  me  the  thing  seemed  tragical— 
As  though  he'd  set  a  torch  to  half  himself. 

"What!"  I  cried,  "burned  your  splendid  poetry? 
Laid  yourself  out  like  that  upon  a  shelf? 

"What  will  you  do?"     "I'll  do  as  other  men; 

Harness  my  talent  as  a  modern  should. 
I'll  do  the  obvious  with  all  my  age — 

The  cheap,  the  counterfeit,  the  understood! 

"I've  a  new  job  this  night;    a  fine,  new  job — 
He  spat  into  the  shadows  of  the  place — 

"Verse-making  on  a  magazine!    The  sort 
That  wears  a  painted  simper  on  its  face. 

"I'm   rich  .  .  .  and   drunk.     I    had   to   drink  or 

scream, 

And  drink  goes  deep  with  me;  ...  get  me  to  bed. 
7  l97l 


I've  slaughter  on  my  soul — and  verse  to  make. 
My  editor  wants — something  light — he  said — 

"Something  that's  brisk  and — funny."  There  he 
stood, 

With  those  raw,  suffering  eyes  and  stared  at  me, 
Until  I  near  cried  out.  He  was  so  white! 

And  older  .  .  .  older  than  a  man  should  be. 

I  swear  whole  ages  crumbled  in  his  face, 

For  he  had  dreamed,  and  dreams  are  ancient 
things, 

Bearing  a  harsher  reckoning  than  Time 
When  once  despair  has  crumpled  up  their  wings. 

I  got  him  stripped  and  into  bed  at  last. 

The  poor,  spent  lad!    He  lay  there  still  and  stark, 

His  smudged  hands  clenched  acrossliis  shallow  chest, 
And  moaned  once  as  I  crept  out  through  the 
dark. 


Success  came  to  him  swiftly;    made  him  drunk. 

He  gulped  life  as  a  drunkard  gulps  his  bowl, 

[98] 


Forgetting  all  his  splendid  futile  dreams — 
He  was  an  altered  person  to  his  soul. 

He  fattened  and  grew  flushed;  he  learned  to  sneer; 

His  verses  ran  like  swift,  malignant  flame, 
Smirching  the  thing  they  touched  and  burning  on 

To  wipe  the  pathway  for  his  striding  fame. 

He  left  the  Basement  then;  soared  up  two  flights 
With  braggart  wings,  bought  furniture  and 
prints, 

Nonsense,  we  called  it! — and  to  crown  the  show 
Decked  out  his  trappings  in  a  flowered  chintz. 

But  that  phase  passed.  His  true  self's  tide  flowed 
back, 

We  saw  him  drowning  in  his  own  strange  deeps; 
A  crawling  restlessness  crept  from  his  eyes, 

The  sort  of  serpent  thing  that  never  sleeps. 

A  month  or  two  he  clung  to  his  gay  nest, 
Beat  his  wings  breathlessly  within  a  shell, 

Made  himself  live  with  all  his  flaunted  things, 
Grim  as  a  tortured  convict  in  a  cell. 
l99l 


And  then  his  self's  self  conquered.  .  .  .  One  May 
night 

When  earth  was  breathing  fragrance  to  its  core, 
And  open  windows  drank  the  breath  of  Spring, 

He  came  and  stood  within  my  open  door. 

"Please,"  he  said,  "would  you  mind?"  .  .  .  And 

there  he  stopped, 

Sucking  his  cheeks  in  like  a  timid  boy. 
"I've  gone  back  to  the  Basement.  .  .  .  I've  gone 

back! 
The  other  room  made  life  seem  just  a  toy. 

"And  that's  not  right.  .  .  .  There's  something 
more  to  life 

Than  turning  it  to  playthings I've  gone  back, 

To  find  my  book  again,  to  do  the  work 

I'd  planned  to  do  according  to  my  knack." 

"Your  book,"  I  said,  "your  book?    You  burned 

it,  boy!" 

He  flinched.     "I  know.     I  feel  its  ashes  still 
Here  on  my  hands.     That's  what  I  want  of  you — 
I  know  that  you  can  help  me  if  you  will." 
[100] 


His  tone  was  light,  and  yet  '!•  hcancl  him"  breathe 
As  men  do  in  the  ache  and  grip  of  strife. 

I  rose  and  went  with  him.  Again  he  said,  _ 
"There's  something  more  than  toys  to  make  of 
life." 

The  Basement,  with  its  yellow  tooth  of  light, 
Grinned  at  us  like  a  long-familiar  face, 

Whose  daily  wont  of  ugliness,  revealed, 

Mounts  to  a  sin  within  the  moment's  space. 

Its  gaping  door  still  breathed  the  winter's  chill, 
Its  single  window  level  with  the  street 

Flickered  with  fragments  of  the  passing  world, 
Hummed  with  a  whispered  drudgery  of  feet. 

And  yet  to  him  its  very  barrenness 

Was  like  a  savage  penance.     Standing  there 

He  bruised  himself  upon  its  ugliness 
Until  the  sweat  stood  out  beneath  his  hair. 

"I  asked  you  down,"  he  said,  "to  help  me  think, 
To  help  remember."    Once  again  the  sweat 

Stood  out  on  him,  and  as  I  looked  I  knew 
It  was  his  soul  had  made  his  body  wet. 
[101] 


He  gripped  me  with  the  hunger  of  his  eyes, 

Hard  as  a  knife  his  glance  was,  hard  as  steel. 

"How  did  it  go? — My  book?     I've  thought  and 

thought 
Until  my  brain  is  like  a  going  wheel." 

I  stared  at  him  in  sudden  choking  pain. 

"Boy!"   I   said.     "For  my  life—"     He  cried, 

"You  must! 
It's  all  behind  a  door  inside  your  mind; 

It's  there,  if  you  will  brush  aside  the  dust! 

"My  own  mind's  locked  against  me.    Now  and  then 
A  line  comes  back,  a  bare  crumb  at  the  most. 

My  plan,  my  meaning — all  the  soul  within 
Peers  with  the  faded  features  of  a  ghost." 

"It  was  the  Town,"  I  said,  "in  all  its  guise. 

The  Town!     It  was  the  crowds  along  the  street; 
Faces  and  spires  and  stately  ships  and  dreams, 

Desires,  and  winnings,  and  I  think — defeat." 

"Defeat,"    he   gasped,    "defeat!"     And   then    he 
dropped 

[102] 


Down  at  his  palsied  desk  and  bowed  his  head 
Upon  his  arms.  ...  I  felt  my  flesh  grow  cold 
As  though  that  gesture  meant  a  man   struck 
dead. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  from  the  prison  of  his  arms, 
"What  god  would  wreck  a  man  with  one  mistake  ? 

Give  him  two  selves  and  to  each  self  a  sword 
So  he's  half  slain  or  ever  he's  awake!" 

He  raised  his  haggard  face.     "In  every  man 
There  is  division  of  the  dust  and  dream, 

And  Youth  is  just  the  crossing  of  the  swords 
Before  he  takes  his  place  within  the  scheme. 

"The  Town's  a  citadel  for  all  things  flesh, 
And  yet  a  man  might  storm  it  with  a  song, 

Played  he  not  traitor  to  himself.  ...  I  quit, 
And  oh,  it  was  the  quitting  that  was  wrong! 

"I  was  so  lonely  for  a  thing  to  love, 
A  single  look,  a  passing  word  of  praise — 

I  was  as  near  to  triumph  as  a  smile, 
And  now  defeat,  defeat  for  all  my  days! 
[103] 


"Cities  are  cruel  things,"  he  whispered  then, 
"Their  slaves  are  Failure,  and  their  gods  Defeat." 

In  at  the  window  came  a  thrust  of  wind, 
Bearing  the  weary  music  of  the  street.  .  .  . 

He  leaped  up  with  an  oath,  snapped  off  the  light, 
An  instant,  unforgetable,  there  gleamed 

His  white  face.  .  .  .  Then  a  whisper  through  the 

dark, 
"I  would  to  God  that  I  had  never  dreamed." 


The  years  go  slowly  in  a  boarding-house, 
Sharpened  with  neither  passions  nor  despairs; 

Time  seems  to  falter  in  those  dim,  gray  halls — 
The  days  are  only  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

The  Basement  yawned  for  tenants,  but  none  came; 

It  seemed  completer  for  its  emptiness. 
Gayheart  had  been  its  last.  ...  To  me  the  room 

Still  wore  the  mantle  of  his  soul's  distress. 

I  never  saw  his  face  but  once  again; 

It  was  a  sharp  cold  midnight  in  the  fall; 
[104] 


Broadway  lay  flaming  like  a  polished  sword, 
As  though  one  night  were  given  to  flame  its  all. 

The    theaters,    bright-mouthed,    poured    forth    a 
stream 

Of  pallid  faces  that  the  glare  struck  dead. 
The  street  crawled,  and  the  noise  went  up  to  God 

In  formless  cries,  like  some  great  need  unsaid. 

The  buffet  of  false  brightness  swept  the  night 
With  rosy  blushes  to  the  firmament. 

Here  ran  the  riot  of  a  hoarded  world, 
Here  life  was  only  reckoned  to  be  spent! 

And  here,  carved  in  that  graceless  art  of  fire, 
Stood  Gayheart's  name,  a  star's  height  o'er  the 
street. 

His  words  came  back  to  me  as  clear  as  bells, 
"  Their  slaves  are  Failure,  and  their  gods  Defeat!" 

Was  this  defeat,  then?    Was  his  fame  defeat? 
'      I  knew  the  sort  of  comic  thing  he'd  done. 
Had  he  forgot  those  ashes  on  his  hands? 
Had  he  by  hard  forgetting  played  and  won? 
[105] 


Then  suddenly  I  saw  him  in  the  crowd, 
Beneath  that  scarlet  flaunting  of  his  name. 

A  smooth,  smug  mask  of  flesh  was  on  him  now; 
He  was  the  very  creature  of  his  fame. 

His  boyishness  had  died.  .  .  .  His  hard,  clean  youth 
Was  gone  for  ever  'neath  a  whelm  of  clay. 

Yet  as  I  looked  I  saw  him  lift  his  head, 
And  all  his  grossness  seemed  to  fall  away. 

His  hungry  look  went  straight  to  Heaven's  throne, 
High  up  into  the  folded  book  of  stars, 

And  on  his  face  I  saw  the  Quest  again — 
He  was  the  seeker,  fainting  with  his  scars! 

One  glimpse  and  he  was  gone,  ...  a  soul  blown  on 
And  lost  at  last  beneath  those  -painted  skies. 

Yet  he  still  lives!     There  never  dawns  a  day 
But  I  behold  him  in  the  City's  eyes. 


[106] 


SONG 

LOVE'S  on  the  highroad, 
Love's  in  the  byroad — 

Love's  on  the  meadow,  and  Love's  in  the  mart! 
And  down  every  byway 
Where  I've  taken  my  way 

I've  met  Love  a-smiling — for  Love's  in  my  heart! 


[109] 


HARVEST 

THERE  was  a  schooner  came  ashore  this  fall; 

A  graceful  thing  flung  on  the  bar  and  slain, 
With  draggled  gear,  her  stays  about  her  trucks 

Like  blown  hair,  .  .  .  and  her  beauty  all  in  vain. 

She  floundered  through  the  spray  with  crumpled 
wings, 

A  gray  bird  smothered  in  a  leaping  doom. 
We  huddled  there  at  dawn  to  see  her  die, 

A  circle  of  white  faces  in  the  gloom. 

There  was  a  cold  light  reaping  in  the  east, 
A  slow  scythe  cutting  at  the  field  of  stars, 

And  wind  to  beat  a  strong  man  down.     We  stood 
Watching  five  dots  that  specked  her  tossing  spars. 

Five  human  souls.  .  .  .  We  saw  the  sea  reach  up 
And   pluck  at  them  with  great  white-fingered 
hands — 

[no] 


Three  times  the  life-boat  thrust  against  the  surf; 
The  sea  laughed  loud  .  .  .  and  broke  it  on  the 
sands. 

So  there  was  nothing  more  to  do.    The  end 

Came  as  the  sun  burst  through  its  iron  clouds. 
The    racked    ship    staggered,  reeled,   and    disap- 
peared— 

The  flung  spume  served  the  dead  men  as  their 
shrouds. 

And  then,  clear-voiced,  the  village  church-bell  sang 
Above  the  wind  and  sea.  .  .  .  We  had  forgot 

What  day  it  was.     Now  suddenly  we  turned 
Together  toward  the  house  where  death  is  not. 

No  word  was  spoken,  yet  we  all  went  in 

To  the  still  aisles  and  knelt  upon  the  floor. 

A  man  was  there,  a  drunkard  and  a  thief, 
One  who  had  never  been  in  church  before. 

He  kneeled  beside  us,  twisting  his  red  hands, 
A  startled  glory  in  his  sodden  eyes.  .  .  . 

I  thought  of  five  men  silent  in  the  sea 
That  one  might  bring  his  soul  to  paradise, 
[in] 


BALLAD   OF    DEAD   GIRLS 

SCARCE  had  they  brought  the  bodies  down 

Across  the  withered  floor 
Than  Max  Rogosky  thundered  at 

The  District  Leader's  door. 

Scarce  had  the  white-lipped  mothers  come 

To  search  the  fearful  noon 
Than  little  Max  stood  shivering 

In  Tom  McTodd's  saloon. 

In  Tom  McTodd's  saloon  he  stood, 

Beside  the  silver  bar, 
Where  any  honest  lad  may  stand 

And  sell  his  vote  at  par. 

"Ten  years  I've  paid  the  System's  tax." 
(The  words  fell  quivering,  raw), 

"And  now  I  want  the  thing  I  bought — 
Protection  from  the  law." 

[112] 


The  Leader  smiled  a  crooked  smile. 

"Your  doors  were  locked,"  he  said. 
"You've  overstepped  the  limit,  Max — 

A  hundred  women  .  .  .  dead!" 

Then  Max  Rogosky  gripped  the  bar, 
And  shivered  where  he  stood. 

"You  listen  now  to  me,"  he  cried, 
"Like  business  fellers  should. 

"Pve  paid  for  all  my  hundred  dead, 
I've  paid,  I've  paid,  I've  paid.  .  .  ." 

His  ragged  laughter  rang,  and  died — 
For  he  was  sore  afraid. 

"I've  paid  for  wooden  hall  and  stair, 
I've  paid  to  strain  my  floors, 

I've  paid  for  rotten  fire-escapes, 
For  all  my  bolted  doors. 

"Your  fat  inspectors  came  and  came, 
I  crossed  their  hands  with  gold. 

And  now  I  want  the  thing  I  bought, 

The  thing  the  System  sold." 
8  [113] 


The  District  Leader  filled  a  glass 

With  whisky  from  the  bar; 
(The  little  silver  counter  where 

He  bought  men's  souls  at  par.) 

And  well  he  knew  that  he  must  give 

The  thing  that  he  had  sold, 
Else  men  should  doubt  the  System's  word, 

Keep  back  the  System's  gold. 

The  whisky  burned  beneath  his  tongue: 

"A  hundred  women — dead! 
I  guess  the  Boss  can  fix  it  up; 

Go  home — and  hide,"  he  said. 

All  day  they  brought  the  bodies  down 

From  Max  Rogosky's  place. 
And,  oh,  the  fearful  touch  of  flame 

On  hand  and  breast  and  face! 

All  day  the  white-lipped  mothers  came 

To  search  the  sheeted  dead, 
And  Horror  strode  the  blackened  walls 

Where  Death  had  walked  in  red. 
[114] 


But  Max  Rogosky  did  not  weep 
(He  knew  that  tears  were  vain); 

He  paid  the  System's  price,  and  lived 
To  lock  his  doors  again. 


LINCOLN 

I  THINK  he  is  not  dead — I  think  his  face 

Is  in  our  faces,  and  his  hands  grope  through 

Our  hands  when  we  do  any  kindnesses — 

And  when  we  dream  I  think  he  means  us  to. 

I  saw  a  man  stand  in  a  shrieking  street 

Preaching  a  hopeless  Cause.     Deep  in  his  eyes 

A  glory  flickered — and  I  knew  he  looked 
With  other  ecstasies  at  God's  mute  skies. 

He  was  a  workman,  risen  to  a  Dream; 

His  face  was  bitten  as  with  sharp-edged  swords — 
Yet  he  had  gathered  him  a  little  world 

From  life's  loud  street  to  hear  his  halting 
words — 

And  we  who  listened,  bound  by  some  strange  awe, 
Sensed  the  vague  god  shine  through  the  dusty 
tramp, 

[116] 


Saw  the  dim  Presence  kneeling  in  his  eyes, 
And  that,  I  think,  was  Lincoln  at  his  lamp. 

And  so  I  say  he  is  not  dead;   not  he! 

He  was  too  much  a  part  of  us  to  die. 
Deep  in  the  street  I  see  his  faces  go; 

His  light  is  in  my  neighbor  passing  by. 


THE  DANCER 

(TO  MLLE.   ANNA   PAVLOWA) 

THE  Wind  has  laid  its  dim  commands 
Upon  her  feet,  and  hair,  and  hands — 

It  seems  she  has  nor  will  nor  mind 
Save  that  white  bowing  to  the  Wind. 

Her  body  is  a  stem  of  grace 

That  bears  the  flower  of  her  face — 

And  whitely  through  the  mazing  dance 
She  treads  with  fairy  elegance, 

Until  the  Wind  blows  swifter.  .  .  .  Then 
She  flings  beyond  this  mortal  ken 

To  some  far  heaven  where  it  seems 
She  dances  at  a  Shrine  of  Dreams; 
[118] 


Before  the  Threshold,  yet  untrod 

By  aught  save  Life,  and  Death,  and  God, 

She  dances  in  a  great  Wind's  breath, 
A  spirit  in  a  mock  of  Death! 

Bears  out  the  movement  and  the  urge, 
The  vital,  vast,  unending  surge 

Of  Life  that  goes  with  spirit  red 
Against  the  stilled  worlds  of  the  dead. 

Whirls  there,  and  wheels,  and  goes  again, 
Until  her  hair  is  loosed  like  rain — 

Until  her  hands  are  like  white  doves 
That  flutter  in  their  Springtime  loves; 

Until  her  lovely  body  flings 
Her  eager  spirit  sudden  wings — 

So  in  the  hot  flame  of  her  dance 
Rebuilds  earth's  ancient  radiance. 


And  with  her  gay,  eternal  youth 
Lays  finger  on  the  hidden  Truth — 

Laughs  at  God's  breast,  while  Life  stands  by, 
And,  dancing  on,  flings  Death  the  lie! 

All  motion  breathes  within  her  mind — 
She  is  a  flower  in  the  Wind. 

She  is  a  leaf  blown  down  the  sea 
That  men  have  named  eternity — 

A  woman,  drawn  to  some  dim  goal 
By  that  mad  butterfly,  her  soul! 


[120] 


THE  HOME  LAND 

MY  land  was  the  West  land;  my  home  was  on  the 

hill. 
I  never  think  of  my  land  but  it  makes  my  heart 

to  thrill; 
I  never  smell  the  west  wind  that  blows  the  golden 

skies 
But  old  desire  is  in  my  feet  and  dreams  are  in  my 

eyes. 


My  home  crowned  the  Highland;   it  had  a  stately 

grace. 
I  never  think  of  my  land  but  I  see  my  mother's 

face; 
I  never  smell  the  west  wind  that  blows  the  silver 

ships 
But  old  delight  is  in  my  heart  and  youth  is  on  my 

lips. 

[121] 


My  land  was  a  high  land;   my  home  was  near  the 

skies. 

I  never  think  of  my  land  but  a  light  is  in  my  eyes, 
I  never  smell  the  west  wind  that  blows  the  summer 

rain — 
But  I  am  at  my  mother's  knee,  a  little  lad  again. 


[122] 


BALLAD  OF  THE  DEAD  KING 

THE  dead  King  lay  in  his  stately  hall; 

The  guard  paced  slow,  paced  slow; 
The  stars  shone  in  at  the  shuttered  port, 

The  candles  fluttered  low. 

Sore  wearied  was  the  sleeping  King, 

With  all  his  kingdom's  care. 
His  face  was  like  a  winter's  day — 

The  snow  was  in  his  hair. 

The  candles  threw  a  broken  light 

About  his  resting-place, 
And  all  the  stillnesses  of  earth 

Were  gathered  on  his  face. 

It  seemed  he  came  a  distant  way 
Through  harsh,  unfriendly  lands, 


And  laid  his  labor  at  God's  feet, 
And  slept  with  folded  hands. 


Across  the  wall  where  life  began 
Men  stopped  and  praised  the  King; 

And  Some  One  hauled  the  banners  down, 
And  made  the  bells  to  ring. 

And  Some  One  said  the  King  was  good, 

And  Some  One  wept  aloud, 
And  Some  One  labored  night  and  day 

To  make  the  King  his  shroud. 

But  little  Carl,  the  weaver's  son, 
Who  played  beneath  the  wall, 

He  laughed,  as  only  childhood  laughs, 
And  tossed  his  bright  new  ball. 

"He  gave  me  this,  the  tall,  gray  man," 

Thus  Seven-Summers  sang; 
And  still  they  hauled  the  banners  down. 

And  still  the  dull  bells  rang. 

I  i*4] 


"He  stopped  as  he  went  riding  by, 
And  bought  my  ball  for  me." 

The  childish  laughter  shrilled  and  died. 
The  bells  tolled  ceaselessly. 


The  dead  King  lay  in  the  Halls  of  State, 
The  guard  paced  slow,  paced  slow; 

The  dawn  came  in  at  the  shuttered  port, 
And  the  candles  flickered  low. 

Sore  wearied  was  the  sleeping  King 

With  all  his  kingdom's  care, 
His  face  was  like  a  winter's  day — 

The  snow  was  in  his  hair. 

They  bore  him  down  at  break  o'  day 

And  laid  him  in  his  place; 
And  all  the  stillness  of  the  tomb 

Was  gathered  on  his  face. 

They  sang  his  name  in  chanted  psalms, 
They  praised  him,  being  dead; 

Their  grief  was  like  a  wind  of  tears — 
"He  was  the  King!"  they  said. 


Then  high  above  the  sobbing  wind 

All  suddenly  there  came 
The  tribute  of  the  Secret  Deed 

That  has  no  thought  of  fame. 

Shrill,  shrill  it  rose  above  the  crowd, 
The  fairest  praise  of  all — 

The  laughter  of  a  little  child 
Who  played  beneath  the  wall. 


[126] 


IN  A  WINDOW 

THE  world  sits  by  an  open  window  now, 
Parting  the  silver  curtains  of  the  rain 
With  spirit  hands  and  peering  like  a  child — 

Searching  the  dusk  for  all  its  dreams  again. 

> 

No  more  I  drowse  beside  the  winter's  hearth, 
Building  my  secret  castles  in  the  flame; 

Out  of  all  houses  now  the  soul  must  go, 
Seeking  the  thing  that  never  had  a  name. 

Seeking  the  new,  sweet  ways  across  the  grass, 
Seeking  the  little  gods  that  ride  the  rain; 

Pausing  to  laugh  with  some  fresh  fluttered  leaf, 
And  going  on  ...  and  going  on  again. 

Winter  is  dead  with  all  her  lily  snows, 
Dead  in  the  ashes  of  a  lonely  hearth. 

I  sit  beside  an  open  window  now 
Sending  my  soul  for  laughter  down  the  earth! 
[1271 


LITTLE  WHITE  HEARSE 

CARRY  her  softly,  Little  White  Hearse, 

Down  through  the  dusk  of  the  careless  street; 

She  will  be  glad  for  the  graveyard  green 
And  the  wind  that  blows  so  sweet. 

Quick  were  her  hands  in  the  busy  loom, 

But  now  they  are  crossed  on  her  childish  breast. 

Carry  her  softly,  Little  White  Hearse; 
She  will  be  glad  for  rest. 

She  will  be  glad  for  the  long,  long  sleep, 
And  the  night  that  breaks  on  a  toilless  day. 

Carry  her  gently,  Little  White  "Hearse, 
Down  through  the  streets  of  play. 

Muffle  thy  sound,  O  Little  White  Hearse, 
Go  through  the  town  with  a  gentle  tread. 

Why  should  we  pause  in  our  golden  hours 
To  know  that  a  child  is  dead? 
[128] 


PEACE 

A  BROAD  blue  water  moving  to  the  sea — 
A  world  asleep  upon  the  water's  edge — 

A  wind  that  breathed  the  perfume  of  the  pine — 
A  saintly  lily  floating  in  the  sedge.  .  .  . 

And  through  the  dim  cathedral  of  the  wood 
A  low  light,  burning  like  an  altar  flame, 

Where  the  stilled  voices  of  withholden  choirs 
Wove  the  slow  shining  musics  of  a  Name.  .  .  . 

And  then  afar  upon  the  hill's  round  breast 
A  young  girl,  standing  white  and  slim  and  fair, 

The  rippled  grasses  going  from  her  feet, 

The  new  stars  like  a  circlet  on  her  hair.  .  .  . 

Then  a  song  lifting,  lifting  to  the  stars, 

A  reaping  note  that  gathered  all  the  peace — 

And  said  it  cleanly  to  the  twilit  world 

As  though  to  buy  the  day's  worn  soul  release. . . . 
9  [  129  ] 


And  afterward  the  water  moving  on, 

And  the  last  golden  glory  of  the  flame.  .  .  . 

But  I  had  heard  the  singing  on  the  hill, 

And  the  hushed  responsive  musics  of  a  Name! 


[130] 


BALLAD  OF  THE  LATE  JOHN  FLINT 

THE  late  John  Flint  he  sat  him  down 

To  banquet  in  his  pride; 
A  serving-man  in  scarlet  cloth 

Stood  humbly  at  his  side; 
Across  a  bank  of  orchids  sat 

His  million-dollar  Bride. 

The  feast  was  done;   the  wedding  wine 
In  precious  cups  was  poured. 

No  other  guest,  John  Flint  could  swear, 
Was  bidden  to  his  board, 

Yet  yonder  sat  a  ghostly  Thing 
And  held  an  empty  gourd. 

It  had  a  beard  of  waving  mist, 

A  pale,  unwinking  eye; 
The  hand  that  held  the  gourd  was  white, 

As  hands  of  men  who  die. 
[131] 


Its  face  was  many  faces,  each 
As  bitter  as  a  lie. 

The  Bridegroom  smiled  a  twisted  smile; 

"The  wine  is  strong,"  he  said. 
The  Bride  she  twirled  her  wedding-ring, 

Nor  lifted  up  her  head; 
And  there  were  three  at  John  Flint's  board, 

And  one  of  them  was  dead. 

The  Bride  she  twirled  her  wedding-ring, 

And,  ah,  the  Bride  was  fair! 
A  rope  of  pearls  burned  her  white  throat — 

Bright  jewels  starred  her  hair; 
Her  fingers  lay  in  golden  gaols — 

John  Flint  had  put  them  there. 

• 

All  suddenly  she  raised  her  head: 

"What  seest  thou?"  she  cried. 
The  Bridegroom  wet  his  lips  with  wine, 

Then  swept  the  glass  aside — 
His  smile  was  like  a  crooked  knife, 

And  yet  he  smiled,  and  lied. 


"I  only  see  my  scarlet  man 

Who  serves  me  all  the  year; 
I  only  see  my  yellow  cups 

That  hold  the  wedding  cheer — 
What  moves  you,  Sweetling,  that  you  look 

With  such  a  face  of  fear?" 

The  Bride  she  clutched  the  shining  cloth — 

(The  wine  spilled  warm  and  red 
Between  the  precious  cups  of  gold) — 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said. 
"I  am  afraid  of  men  who  sit 

As  though  they  saw  the  dead." 

"Nay,  Sweet,  and  why  should  dead  men  leave 

Their  graves  to  trouble  me? 
The  world  knows  well  how  much  I  gave 

To  holy  charity. 
Did  I  not  move  the  Poorman's  Bill 

That  made  the  graveyards  free?" 

His  head  sagged  low,  and  from  his  lips 

A  broken  laughter  fell; 
"I  gave  the  poor  their  graveyards  free 

Because  I  loved  them  well; 
[133] 


I  swear — no  man — may  send — his  ghost 
To  drag — me — down — to  hell!" 

He  stood  erect,  with  staring  eyes 

Fixed  on  the  empty  place; 
Then  staggered  like  a  stricken  thing, 

And  fell  upon  his  face.  .  .  . 
So  lay  upon  his  Sweetheart's  breast 

In  passionless  embrace. 


The  City  Fathers  tolled  a  bell 

And  dolorously  sighed; 
The  Board  of  Trade  embossed  regrets 

And  mailed  them  to  the  Bride, 
Who  gave  them  to  the  serving-man, 

Who  cast  them  all  aside. 

The  distant  relatives  flocked  in — 

Pale  uncles  and  proud  aunts; 
But  John  Flint's  Bride  was  young  and  fair, 

She  loved  to  laugh  and  dance — 
She  married  John  Flint's  serving-man 

And  went  to  live  in  France. 
[I34l 


HILLS 

I    HAVE    remembered    the    hills   through    all   my 

street; 
Though  life  press  close,  and  Sorrow  brush  my 

hand, 

Still  I  have  kept  my  last  horizons  sweet 
With  all  that  memory  of  a  lifted  land. 

Safe    from    the    years    my  windows    hold    them 
still, 

Far  citadels  from  whence  a  glory  streams! 
Upon  their  heights  my  spirit  goes  athrill 

And  in  my  heart  are  old  forgotten  dreams.  .  .  . 

You  may  look  out  and  see  them  in  the  dawn, 
Their  cowls  thrust  back,  and  crimson  in  their 

dress; 

For  you  are  young,  and  splendidly  withdrawn, 
And  life  has  still  its  golden  distances. 
[135] 


But  I  have  walked  a  street  with  straining  crowds, 
With   surging   men   who   would   not   say  their 

names; 
We  were  no   more  than  dust   and    dreams   and 

shrouds, 
And  dress  and  gold  and  little  passing  fames. 

And  some  there  were  who  did  not  lift  their  eyes 
From  the  dun,  bitter  highway  where  we  trod, 

But  I  was  rich!    Against  the  distant  skies 
I  saw  the  hill  that  raised  my  world  to  God! 


[136] 


THE  PARK 

ALL  day  the  children  play  along  the  walks, 
A  robin  sings  high  in  a  brave,  green  tree, 

The  city  lifts  gray  temples  at  its  marge, 
But  still  it  keeps  the  heart  of  Arcady. 

Still  blows  a  flower  in  the  waving  grass, 
Lifting  a  face  of  beauty  to  the  sun; 

Still  bursts  the  bough  in  joyous  burgeoning — 
Still  comes  a  lover  when  the  day  is  done. 

Here  the  white  moon,  with  magic  in  her  train, 
Stoops  from  the  starry  lanes  of  paradise, 

And,  with  her  ancient  witchery  of  dreams, 
Lays  some  new  hope  upon  a  poet's  eyes. 

See,  on  that  bench  beneath  the  drooping  bough, 

Did  not  yon  grief-bowed  figure  lift  its  face? 
Look  how  the  moonlight  finds  him  through  the 

leaves, 

Touching  his  brow  with  sudden  crowns  of  grace! 
[1371 


O  little  park,  O  little  land  of  hope, 

Snatched  from  the  world  and  held  for  God  and 

me, 

Still  through  thy  walks  the  wistful  cities  go, 
Searching  the  dream  that  yet  might  set  them 
free! 


[138] 


ROSES  IN  THE  SUBWAY 

A  WAN-CHEEKED  girl  with  faded  eyes 
Came  stumbling  down  the  crowded  car. 

Clutching  her  burden  to  her  breast 
As  though  she  held  a  star. 

Roses,  I  swear  it!     Red  and  sweet 

And  struggling  from  her  pinched  white  hands, 
Roses  .  .  .  like  captured  hostages 

From  far  and  fairy  lands! 

The  thunder  of  the  rushing  train 

Was  like  a  hush.  .  .  .  The  flower  scent 

Breathed  faintly  on  the  stale,  whirled  air 
Like  some  dim  sacrament — 

I  saw  a  garden  stretching  out 

And  morning  on  it  like  a  crown — 

And  o'er  a  bed  of  crimson  bloom 
My  mother  .  .  .  stooping  down. 
[I39l 


BALLAD  OF  A  CRUEL  FATE 

"  The  Piper  Came  Down  from  the  Crest  of  the  Hill." 

THE  Piper  came  down  from  the  crest  of  the  hill; 
His  pipe  it  blew  sweeter  than  any  bird's  trill. 
"I  follow  the  road  to  the  Morning,"  said  he, 
"And  who  will  go  roving  the  highroad  with  me?" 

The  King  at  his  casement  looked  wistfully  down; 
Said  he:  "I  would  go  were  it  not  for  my  crown, 
But  I've  battles  to  wage  and  I've  business  to  do, 
And  I  cannot  go  roving  the  highroad  with  you." 

The  Piper  strolled  on  with  a  smile  in  his  eyes. 
His  song  swept  the  street  as  a  wind  sweeps  the 

skies; 

"I  follow  the  road  of  the  Summer,"  said  he, 
"And  who  will  go  roving  the  highroad  with  me?" 

A  Banker  leaned  down  from  his  window  above; 
Said  he:  "I  would  go  were  it  not  for  my  love, 
[140] 


But  I've  treasure  to  tend  and  I've  money  to  make, 
And  I  cannot  go  roving — for  Phyllis's  sake." 

The  Piper  turned  into  the  clattering  mart. 
He  piped  of  the  laughter  that  lay  in  his  heart. 
"I  follow  the  road  of  Contentment,"  said  he, 
"And  who  will  go  roving  the  highroad  with  me?" 

A  Merchant  glanced  up  from  his  counter  o*  trade; 
Said  he:  "I  would  go  if  my  debts  were  all  paid, 
But  I've  bargains  to  drive  and  I've  mortgages  due, 
And  I  cannot  go  roving  the  highroad  with  you." 

The  Piper  went  on  to  the  end  o*  the  street. 
His  song  it  blew  wild  and  his  song  it  blew  sweet; 
"I  follow  the  road  to  the  Morning,"  said  he, 
"And  who  will  go  roving  the  highroad  with  me?" 

A  Beggar  crawled  out  from  the  dusk  of  the  Gate; 
Said  he:    "I  would  follow  you  early  and  late; 
I'm  only  a  wastrel — a  poor  thing  that  begs — 
But,  Lor',  little  Piper,  I  'aven't  no  legs!" 


1 141] 


OUT  OF  THE  FOG 

OUT  of  the  fog  Death  rode  with  great,  still  bows; 

Then  ship  met  ship  with  horrid  agony — 
Steel  locked   and   broke  .  .  .  the   bloodied   faces 
stared 

With  sudden  understanding  at  the  sea. 

All  movement   ceased;    the  world  was   sick  and 

still- 
Then    footsteps    beat   the    buckled    deck,   and 

cries 

Began  .  .  .  and  all  the  humanness  was  gone, 
And  light  and  life  were  little  vanished  lies. 

And  there  were  women — futile,  precious  things; 
And  round-faced  babies  that  they  clutched  and 

kissed, 

And  tearing  wood,  and  the  white  name  of  God, 
And  dead  men  dropping  blackly  through  the 
mist. 

[142] 


Then  through  that  hell  a  lad  stood  smiling,  calm: 
"Here,  ma'am  .  .  .  take  my  belt.  .  .  .  Hurry 
now.  .  .  .  Good-by." 

Came  the  last  shudder  of  the  broken  ship— 
And  Youth  once  more  had  taught  us  how  to  die! 


[1431 


LOVE'S  LIGHT  WORLD 

SUPPOSE  I  should  fashion  you  Love's  light  world, 
With  a  cool,  dim  wood  where  the  Spring  shines 
through, 

And  a  hill  beyond,  where  the  sun  stays  late, 
And  a  thrush  to  sing  in  the  hedge  for  you? 

Suppose  I  should  paint  you  a  silver  brook, 
With  violets  marching  in  wind-blown  crowds, 

And  rushes  to  nod  in  a  hidden  nook, 
And  lilies  asleep  like  a  nest  of  clouds? 

Suppose  I  should  hollow  a  secret  place 
With  wild-rose  edges  and  meadowsweet, 

And  a  little  wind  to  spread  the  lace 
Of  dream-spun  cobwebs  at  your  feet? 

Suppose  I  should  build  you  a  garden  wall, 
With    stars   thrust   over,    and    flowers    tucked 
through, 

[  H4  3 


And  nightingales  sobbing,  and  vines  over  all, 
And  chinks  where  the  gods  may  peep  at  you? 

Garden  and  wood  and  the  hill  beyond 

A  hedge  through  the  dawn  and  brook  to  the  sea — 

Suppose  I  should  fashion  you  Love's  light  world, 
Would  you  go  there  to  live  with  Love  and  me? 


10  [  H5  1 


THE  JESTER 

MASTERS,  I  cannot  make  ye  jest  to-day; 

My  laughter's  left  me  like  an  outworn  coat. 
Yonder  the  dead  lie  in  their  somber  casques — 

I  cannot  get  the  gay  song  from  my  throat. 

Tears,  tears!  I  feel  them  burn  my  blinded  eyes, 
I  cannot  see  my  Masters  for  the  tears. 

What  are  these  dead  to  me?  I  know  them  not. 
Yet,  see!  I  lay  my  poor  jest  at  their  biers. 

'Tis  all  I  have — a  Jester's  faded  mock — 
Yet  if  I  weep  for  them  'tis  not  in  vain. 

Slept  they  not  there,  the  Fool  and  all  his  world 
Might  not  to-morrow  make  their  jest  again! 


[146] 


PAPER   ROSES 

"How  earnest  thou  by  thy  roses,  Child?" 
"I  toiled  at  them  in  a  little  room." 

"Thy  window  flaming  with  the  dawn?" 
"Nay,  master;    'twas  in  fearful  gloom." 

"What  gave  thy  rose  its  color,  then?" 
"My  cheek's  blood,  as  I  bent  my  head." 

"Thy  cheek  is  cold  and  lifeless,  Child." 
"Mayhap  it  was  my  heart  that  bled." 

"One  white  rose  in  thy  basket,  Child?" 
"Aye,  master,  that's  to  crown  the  whole.' 

"What  is  it,  then,  O  Little  Child?" 
"Mayhap  .  .  .  mayhap  it  is  my  soul!" 


[I47l 


HUMORESQUE 

(A.D.  2914) 

A  PLOWMAN,  toiling  in  a  furrowed  field, 
Turned  up  a  pretty  bauble  with  his  steel, 

Stooped  down  and  raised  it  in  his  great  gnarled 

hands, 
Striking  it  lightly  on  his  leathern  heel. 

The  mold  shook  loose;   the  gleam  of  gold  showed 

through, 
The    stare    of    jewels    flicked    the    plowman's 

gaze — 

He  bore  the  bauble  to  the  market-square. 
The  people  gathered  round  him  in  amaze. 

But  none  knew  what  it  was,  its  name  or  use, 
The    pretty   plaything    that   the   lout   brought 

down, 

Till  rumor  flew  with  rumor's  nimbleness 
And  fetched  the  only  savant  in  the  town. 
[148] 


He  took  it  from  the  grinning  plowman's  hand — 
Studied  it,  while  the  folk  stood  in  a  ring. 

"Good  sirs,"  said  he,  "a  thousand  years  ago 
This  bauble  chafed  the  temples  of  a  king." 

The  plowman  whistled;   then  with  impish  mock 
He  snatched  the  baub  and  set  it  on  his  head 

And  ran  back  to  his  toiling  in  the  field, 

Capped  with  the  crown  of  royalty  long  dead. 

His  fellows  struck  their  hips  and  roared  aloud, 
Vowing  him  better  than  a  frisking  troll — 

But  the  savant  shook  his  solemn  yellow  mane. 
He  said  there  might  be  meanings  in  it  all. 


[149] 


THREE  SWORDS 

THREE  blades  from  out  the  smithy  fire 
He  drew,  and  forged  with  starry  blows. 

Beyond  his  door  the  skies  of  God 
Bloomed  like  an  unplucked  rose. 

"Three  swords,"  he  said,  "I  make  for  you, 
O  little  Knight  of  Love  and  Youth! 

One  blade  is  Knowledge,  one  is  Faith, 
And  one  is  Hope,  forsooth." 

I  was  so  young — and  life,  a  rose 
That  bloomed  beyond  the  smithy  door. 

"Give  me  the  first,"  I  cried,  and  rode 
Out  like  a  Knight  to  war. 

Another  year  I  came  again — 

His  forge  was  like  a  rose  agleam. 

"Give  me  the  second  sword,"  I  said, 
"That  I  may  fight — and  dream!" 
[150] 


The  second  sword  lay  in  my  hand, 

I  rode  once  more,  as  Knights  must  do, 

But  all  my  casque  was  wet  with  tears, 
And  my  heart's  blood  trickled  through. 

Then  came  I  back  along  the  road, 
Thrice-ridden,  till  I  saw  his  fire 

Glow  redly  through  the  bitter  dusk 
Like  a  flower  of  desire. 

"The  third,"  I  gasped.     "Give  me  the  third, 
The  last  sword,  that  I  fight  and  die!" 

Then  turned  again,  and  lo,  I  saw 
A  dust  of  roses  through  the  sky. 


[151] 


TO  THE  CITY 

COME  out!    The  day  has  fallen  like  a  rose 

Flung  from  the  basket  of  a  drunken  god; 
Come  out!     The  lights   have   made  a  street  of 
stars, 

The  golden  street  where  Folly  oft  hath  trod, 
Your  mad,  mad  bells,  your  cloak  of  burning  red, 
The  little  peaked  cap  upon  your  head! 
Come  out,  gay  Dancer,  to  the  court  of  night, 

To  madness  and  the  brimming  bowl  of  joy; 
Here's  last  year's  youth,  patched  till  it's  whole 
again, 

Here's  last  year's  laughter — like  a  mended  toy! 

Come    out!     Here's   Love  with   crimson    on  his 

lips, 
Here's    Life    in    motley,    with    a    wine-glazed 

eye; 

The  gods  at  wassail  fling  you  down  a  rose, 
The  petals  of  the  daylight  drift  and  die. 


Here's  wine  for  wisdom  and  for  truth  a  mask. 
Comfy  plunge  your  hands  into  the  scarlet  cask! 
Come  out,  come  out,  to  shining  artifice, 

To  cups  and  capers  and  to  all  that's  sweet; 
The  world's  a  dancing-place;    a  laugh's  enough — 

Come,  here's  a  heart  to  tread  beneath  your  feet! 


[1531 


SONG  IN  THE  DUSK 

A  SINGER,  passing  on  the  star-flecked  stream, 
Sang  to  the  moon,  in  heaven's  window  framed, 

His  dipping  oar  dragged  silver  through  the  dusk, 
His  voice  was  full  of  music  still  untamed. 

The  echoes  lived  and  lived  along  the  night 
Till  they  were  old  with  ecstasy.  .  .  .  The  note 

That  clasps  the  meaning  of  a  universe 

Lifted  and  thrilled  from  that  far  Singer's  throat. 

I  know  not  what  he  sang,  this  Voyageur, 
I  only  know  it  was  his  heart's  4esire; 

Within  the  cottage  we  sat  listening, 

He  with  his  years  and  I  with  dreams  and  fire.  .  . . 

Through  the  long  twilight,  till  the  dark  grew  deep, 
We  sat  together,  silent,  distant-eyed. 

In  me  there  was  a  need  of  worlds  to  storm, 
In  him  it  seemed  that  worlds  on  worlds  had  died. 
[iS4l 


THE  VASE 

THE  Potter  rose  up  smiling  in  the  dawn, 

Ere  Heav'n  had  plucked  the  white  stars  from 
her  hair, 

And  with  a  daze  of  dream  upon  his  eyes, 
Molded  a  vase  surpassing  smooth  and  fair. 

The  red  flow'r  of  the  sun  flamed  up  the  sky, 
The  bright  shops  cast  the  shutters  from  their 

hearts, 
A  beggar  'gan  his  wailing  in  the  dust, 

The  merchants  droned  their  loud  wares  through 
the  marts. 

Yet  still  the  Potter  molded  at  his  vase, 

Touched    it    with    trembling    hands    until    the 

day 
Passed,    and    the    shadows    strode    the    twisted 

street, 
Folding  the  light  like  some  gay  cloak  away. 


Then  came  the  Potter  to  his  house,  and  said, 
"See,  I  have  done  at  last  a  perfect  thing!" 

His  women  peered  into  his  pouch  for  gold, 
And,  seeing  none,  made  angry  muttering. 

But  he  with  that  dazed  smile  upon  his  eyes 
Put  them  aside,  as  shadows  in  a  dream; 

And,  weary  with  the  labor  of  his  soul, 

Lay  down  to  slumber  in  the  day's  last  gleam. 

Then  came  a  crawling  babe,  the  Potter's  son, 
Caught  up  the  vase  with  hands  that  clutched  in 
vain, 

And  while  the  women  whispered  in  the  door, 
Dashed  the  fair  plaything  into  dust  again. 


[156] 


IN  A  CAF£ 

• 

THE  wine  was  cheapi  and  red, 

But  I  smiled  in  your  eyes  as  I  quaffed, 
The  tenor's  voice  was  cracked*,  and  old, 
But  the  song  that  he  sang  was  purest  gold, 

And  I  looked  in  your  heart  and  laughed. 


We  were  young,  so  young  that  we  did  not  care^ 
For  the  world  was  all  in  our  raptured  eyes, 

Though  the  wine  was  cheap  and  the  song  was  old, 
My  heart,  we  were  touching  paradise. 

The  cloth  was  patched  and  worn, 

But  so  was  that  jacket  of  mine, 
The  fiddles  were  shaky  and  out  of  tune, 
But  they  gave  us  the  world  in  a  cloak  of  June, 

And  we  laughed:  as  we  sipped  our  wine. 

We  were  young,  so  young  that  we  did  not  care, 
Though  the  cloth  was  old  and  the  strings  were  wrong, 
[I57l 


For  the  world  was  all  in  our  dream-blind  eyes, 
And  a  god  leaned  out  of  us  through  the  song. 

A  round-cheeked  boy  came  by, 

With  his  violet  merchandise. 
The  blossoms  were  faded  and  smacked  of  the  street, 
But  they  gave  us  a  world  that  was  April-sweet, 

And  they  deepened  the  blue  in  your  eyes. 

We  were  young,  so  young  that  we  did  not  care, 
Though  the  bloom  be  done  and  the  light  take  wing, 

For  heaven  lay  deep  in  our  love-blind  eyes, 

And  the  song  in  our  hearts  was  a  perfect  thing. 


[158] 


A  FACE  AT  CHRISTMAS 

A  WHITE  face  at  the  glowing  window-pane, 
A  face  of  Failure,  weary  and  ill-scarred; 

Nor  can  the  merry  holly  shut  it  out, 

Nor  the  bright  Tree,  flame-dressed  and  candle- 
starred. 

Eyes  at  our  window,  hearts!    Nor  all  the  light 
Of  all  our  wicks  can  touch  them  into  gleam; 

Deep  in  their  dusk  a  soul  with  empty  lamp 
Kneels  at  the  crumbled  altar  of  a  Dream. 

How  can  I  give  the  gifts  of  cloth  and  gold? 

How  give  but  dross  who  might  give  paradise? 
My  brother's  hurt,  laid  at  my  door,  is  mine; 

Myself  in  judgment  startles  from  his  eyes. 

Myself  and  more!    Myself  and  all  men's  selves, 

Bound  in  that  look  of  his — that  weary  nod; 

[I59l 


Though   one   bruised   soul   shall   don   the  world's 

defeat, 
Yet  all  souls  share  it.  ...  And  the  sharing's  God! 

A  white  face  at  my  threshold!     Fling  the  door — 

A  house  withholden  is  a  house  for  sin! 
Call  to  the  Tramp.   .  .  .  Yet  hark,  what  voice 

replies  ? 

What  light  leaps  up,  what  Shining  Guest  comes 
in? 


[160] 


PILGRIM'S  PRAYER 

LOVE,  when  the  day  is  done, 
When  all  the  Light  grows  dim, 

When  to  the  setting  sun 
Rises  the  Vesper  Hymn 

Let  us  stand  heart  to  heart, 
We  who  have  toiled  so  far, 

Bidding  the  day  depart — 
Seeking  the  risen  star! 


ii 


[161 


THE  VAGRANT 

GIVE  me  my  staff  and  my  boots  o'  brown  leather, 
And  give  me  my  cap  with  its  bonny  red  feather; 
The  gold  dawn  has  stirred  from  the  night's  purple 

cavern, 
And  silver's  the  road  that  leads  down  from  the 

tavern. 

Then  fill  a  last  cup  and  we'll  drink  to  the  parting, 
The  day's  at  the  door,  and  it's  soon  I'll  be  starting — 
Farewell  then,  ye  houselings,  old  ties  we  must  sever; 
Farewell  for  a  day,  hearts,  or  farewell  for  ever! 

Haply  no  more  we  may  meet  at  this  table, 
While  night  at  the  window  hangs  star-dusted  sable, 
Or  sing  a  good  song  as  we  tipple  together — 
For  life's  but  a  cat's-paw,  and  man's  but  a  feather. 

\ 

So  now  fare-ye-well,  lads,  and  grant  ye  fair  measure; 

A  lass  for  your  faith  and  a  glass  for  your  pleasure. 

[162] 


My  love's  at  the  doorway,  all  dewy  and  glowing, 
A  rose  in  her  hands  and  her  wild  tresses  blowing! 

Then  give  me  my  staff  and  my  boots  o'  brown 

leather, 

And  give  me  my  cap  with  its  bonny  red  feather; 
My  love's  in  the  doorway;  old  ties  we  must  sever. 
Farewell  for  a  day,  hearts,  or  farewell  for  ever! 


[163] 


HOUSE  OF  YEARS 

A  ROOM  of  joy;  a  room  of  tears, 
This  is  my  House  of  Years! 

Wherein  I  walk  with  blinded  feet 
Through  bitter  halls  and  sweet; 

Through  windowed  rooms  where  all  lights  are 
Of  land  and  sea  and  star — 

Through  doors  of  dark  where  no  lamps  gleam; 
Through  doors  of  dawn  and  dream! 

Through  room  of  Song  and  roorp  of  Moan, 
All  through  my  House — alone, 

With  echoed  step  and  closing  door 
Until  I  walk  no  more — 

Then  one  last  Room  where  old  heads  nod, 
And  peace,  and  sleep,  and  God! 
[164] 


"THREE  MEN  O'  MERRI" 

THERE  were  three  men  o'  Merri, 

That  lies  along  the  sea; 
They  swore  the  oath  of  Salt  and  Wind 

That  they  would  hold  them  free 
From  woman's  charms  and  woman's  arms 

And  woman's  witchery. 

And  Eric  met  a  fisher-lass 

A-walking  on  the  sand; 
"The  sea  is  Loneliness,"  she  said, 

And  touched  him  with  her  hand, 
And  smiled  into  his  blinded  eyes — 

And  wed  him  to  the  land. 

And  Petri  watched  a  bold  girl  dance, 

With  paint  upon  her  lips; 
The  light  fell  from  the  tavern  lamp 

And  touched  her  finger-tips 
Like  marriage-gold!    Another  man 

Hails  out  in  Petri's  ships. 


And  Barrac,  of  the  heart  of  brass, 
Red-maned  and  huge  of  arm, 

He  laughed  and  kissed  a  woman's  lips 
And  found  them  fresh  and  warm — 

And  went  across  the  little  hills 
And  squatted  on  a  farm. 

The  Moral  of  this  simple  tale 

Is  plain  enough  to  see; 
There  is  no  oath  to  bind  a  man 

From  woman's  witchery — 
At  least  I  know  that  it  is  so 

In  Merri,  by  the  sea. 


[166] 


xv*- 


THE  TEACHING        v 

;How  learned  thou  thy  song,  Pierrot?" 

"By  yesterday's  sorrow." 
"What  set  ye  to  singing?" 
lThe  hope  o*  to-morrow." 

Who  taught  thee  thy  jest,  Pierrot?" 

-HA  fool  and  his  winning." 
"What  led  ye  to  say  it?" 
— "The  folly  o'  sinning." 

"What  gave  thee  thy  laughter,  Pierrot?" 

"A  king  in  his  power." 
"What  moved  ye  to  sound  it?" 

"The  flight  of  an  hour." 

"  How  learned  thou  of  love,  Pierrot  ?" 
"By  all  that  is  holy, 


By  Dream  and  by  Song — 
And  my  heart  breaking  slowly! 

[167] 


THIS  I  remember  of  the  long  day's  boon; 
The  sun's  red  going,  and  the  risen  moon; 
The  road  half  bound  with  shade,  and  struggling 

free, 
And  my  love  laughing  by  a  golden  sea! 

I  have  forgot  a  thousand  lovely  skies, 
But  not  that  dusk-hid  heaven  of  her  eyes! 
And  there  comes  never  any  song  to  me 
But  my  love's  voice  returning  from  the  sea. 

This  I  remember  of  the  whole  day's  sweet; 
The  moon,  with  her  great  water  at  her  feet; 
And  my  love  calling,  from  the  road  that  ran 
Into  the  shadows  where  our  world  began! 


[168 


THE  SINGING 

LAST  night  I  sang  with  careless  heart, 
Indifferent  who  should  hear  my  song. 

And  mockingly  I  took  the  gold 
Flung  by  the  drifting  throng. 

To-night  you  crossed  the  little  Square.  .  . 

A  glory  filled  the  bitter  street. 
I  sang  for  Love,  and  singing's  sake — 

And  the  gold  lay  at  my  feet. 


[169] 


CHRISTMAS  PRAYER 

GOD  grant  no  little  child  may  go 
With  hungry  heart  or  empty  hand — 

Give  this  Thy  world  one  radiant  day 
To  understand,  to  understand! 

Give  us  the  fitting  word  to  say, 

The  spendthrift  smile,  the  brave  caress; 

Disclose  our  hearts,  and  give  us  now 
The  courage  of  our  tenderness! 

Lord,  we  are  old  with  toil  and  tears, 
Our  souls  are  veiled  with  various  art, 

Yet  still  the  little  children  keep 
Thine  ancient  simpleness  of  heart — 

And  they  alone  of  all  Thy  breath 
May  bind  the  burning  Angel's  eyes, 

And  striking  laughter  from  the  Sword, 
Retrace  the  years  to  Paradise. 
[170] 


They  are  so  brave  with  love  and  dreams, 
So  eager-eyed,  and,  ah,  so  dear — 

I  think  we  must  return  them  now 
The  faith  they  bore  across  the  year. 

I  think  that  we  must  give  them  now 
The  spendthrift  smile,  the  kindly  word, 

That  earth  may  keep  its  ancient  Hope 
And  we  Thy  full  commandments,  Lord. 


THE  RIDDLE 

WE  were  laying  the  road  to  a  Riddle, 

And  never  a  man  knew  why, 
Nor  Oleson,  nor  little  Giuseppe, 

Nor  Sandy  McGregor,  nor  I; 
It  lay  on  the  hills  before  us, 

And  the  hills  were  strange  with  its  gleam, 
And  mayhap  the  Thing  was  a  City, 

And  mayhap  'twas  only  a  dream. 

We  started  our  picks  in  the  morning, 

We  quit  when  we  came  to  the  stars, 
We  held  out  our  hands  to  the  camp-fire 

And  told  off  the  miles  by  the  scars; 
Long  miles  that  we  laid  with  our  labor. 

And  never  a  man  knew  why, 
Nor  Oleson,  nor  little  Giuseppe, 

Nor  Sandy  McGregor,  nor  I. 

We  sat  by  the  fire  at  twilight 
And  guessed  at  it  gleaming  there, 


With  a  little  red  cloud  above  it 
Like  the  rose  in  a  woman's  hair! 

And  all  of  us  held  by  the  guesses 
And  toiled  to  the  visions  they  made, 

And  some  of  us  wondered,  and  cursed  it, 
And  some  of  us  wondered — and  prayed. 

But  each  of  us  cherished  his  vision 

And  fought  for  his  guess  in  the  gloam, 
And  one  of  us  dreamed  it  was  heaven, 

And  one  of  us  dreamed  it  was  Home. 
Old  Sandy  McGregor  saw  heather, 

And  moorland  and  thistle-blown  sod — 
And  little  Giuseppe  stood  forward, 

And  guessed  it  was  Naples — or  God. 

Then  Oleson,  the  Swede,  broke  the  silence; 

He  surged  to  his  feet  like  a  tide 
And  said  it  was  Snow  on  a  Mountain, 

And  turned  to  his  blanket — and  cried. 
But  how  could  I  tell  them  my  vision? 

A  rose  in  a  woman's  hair — 
Mary — and  Spring  in  Killarney — 

And  never  a  face  more  fair! 


We  were  new  and  strange  to  the  country 

As  we  laid  the  long  road  through, 
And  all  of  us  had  our  guesses, 

But  none  of  us  really  knew. 
Old  Sandy,  he  toiled  to  the  heather, 

And  little  Giusep'  to  the  sea, 
The  Swede  laid  his  road  to  a  mountain, 

But  it  was  Killarney  to  me! 

Four  of  us,  laying  a  roadway, 

And  never  a  man  knew  why, 
Nor  Oleson,  nor  little  Giuseppe, 

Nor  Sandy  McGregor,  nor  I. 
The  road  ran  on  to  a  Riddle, 

The  hills  were  strange  with  its  gleam! 
And  mayhap  the  Thing  was  a  City, 

And  mayhap  'twas  only  a  dream. 


[174] 


"I  HAVE  SO  LOVED  THE  DAY" 

I  HAVE  so  loved  the  glory  of  the  Day, 

From  surging  dawn  to  wondrous  setting  sun, 

I  think  some  light  must  linger  on  my  eyes, 
When  life  is  done. 

I  think  some  glow  of  sunset  or  of  dawn 
Must  touch  the  sleeping  altars  of  my  soul, 

So  they  who  look  into  my  face  at  last 
Shall  wonder  of  my  goal — 

So  they  who  come  at  twilight  with  wet  eyes 
Shall  look  upon  my  stillness,  smile  and  go — 

A  little  surer  of  their  Paradise 
Because  I  loved  life  so. 


[I75l 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  THE  HILL 

THE  other  side  the  hill, 

Where  the  water-lilies  are, 
There's  a  pirate  ship  a-riding, 

With  the  moon-mist  on  her  spar; 
And  the  bucaneers  are  waiting 

Till  the  winds  o'  dawn  shall  blow, 
And  the  day  will  be  at  morning 

When  they  go,  when  they  go. 

The  other  side  the  hill, 

Where  the  lilies  lie  so  pale, 
There's  a  pirate  ship  a-sleeping 

With  the  moon-mist  in^her  sail; 
And  the  captain,  he  is  seven, 

And  the  crew  is  six  or  so, 
And  the  day  will  be  at  dawning 

When  they  go,  when  they  go. 

The  other  side  the  hill, 

Where  the  water  silver  gleams, 


There's  a  pirate  ship  a-waiting 

For  the  plunder  cruise  o'  dreams — 

And  the  stars  will  soon  be  paling, 
And  the  winds  o*  dawn  will  blow, 

And  my  heart,  it  will  be  breaking 
When  they  go,  when  they  go! 


12  [  177 


THE  ADVENTURER 

I  NEVER  have  gone  sailing,  sailing  on  the  sea; 

The  winds  that  sing  to  sailormen  have  never  sung 
to  me; 

Yet  I  have  heard  the  Voice  that  calls  the  sea- 
winds  to  their  blowing, 

And  I  have  known  the  glory  of  the  galleons  out- 
going! 

I  never  have  gone  strolling,  strolling  from  the  Road, 

For  me  no  meadow-path  has  wound,  nor  little 
brook  has  flowed; 

Yet  I  have  known  the  Dream  that  lights  the  by- 
way through  the  clover, 

And  I  have  heard  the  voices  calling,  all  the  long 
world  over. 

The  other  lads  go  roving,  roving  down  the  world; 
For  me  no  road  has    stretched  away,  nor  gipsy 
sail  unfurled; 


Yet  I  have  seen  the  blue  sea  break  upon  the 
yellow  sands, 

And  I  have  known  the  fullness  of  the  earth  be- 
tween my  hands! 


Between  my  hands,  and  all  my  own,  both  dawn 

and  evening  star — 
And,  ah,  to  slough  my  toil  and  go  where  all  the 

new  dreams  are, 
Beyond  the  outer  rim  of  seas,  beyond  the  heart's 

unrest, 
To  Arcady  that  does  not  lie  by  East  or  South  or 

West— 


That  does  not  lie  by  West  or  East,  nor  yet  by 

North  or  South, 
Nor  at  the  foot  of  distant  hills,  nor  by  the  river's 

mouth, 
Yet  lies  somewhither,  up  the  world  or  down  the 

world  I  know, 
Else  why  should  God  have  given  me  the  youth 

to  dream  it  so? 

[I79l 


I  never  have  gone  boldly,  boldly  to  the  free! 

Yet  I  have  seen  the  shining  sails  that  fleck  the 
outer  sea, 

And  I  have  heard,  across  the  Road,  the  vagrant 
thrushes  sing, 

Wherefore  my  soul  has  sped  away  to  great  ad- 
venturing ! 


[180] 


AUTUMN 

SWIFTLY  my  heart,  while  fades  the  summer  rose, 
Speak  thou  of  love,  ere  Youth  and  Love  grow 
cold! 

The  year  hath  turned  her  face  unto  the  snows. 
The  earth  is  old,  is  old. 

Now,  while  the  flushed  leaf  falters  from  the  bough, 
Speak  of  thy  love,  and,  ah,  speak  soon,  speak 
soon! 

God  flings  us  no  deep  day  to  laze  in  now, 
Nor  masks  His  face  with  June — 

The  brief  suns  fall  like  petals  from  the  rose, 
The  days  dawn  whiter  than  a  wheeling  dove. 

Heart  o*  my  heart,  before  we  face  the  snows, 
Speak  thou  of  love,  of  love! 


[181] 


THE  PRODIGAL 

HAD  I  the  golden  days  of  June 
To  spend  again,  to  spend  again, 

The  yellow  treasures  of  the  moon, 
The  slow,  sweet  silver  of  the  rain, 

I  know  what  bargains  I  would  drive 
With  Autumn's  sad-eyed  chatelaine. 

I  know  what  purchase  I  would  make 
With  my  bright  trove  of  summer  gold, 

I  know  that  I  would  buy  me  now 
A  crackling  fire  from  the  cold — 

A  flame  of  all  the  withered  days 

That  flutter  down,  when  hearts  are  old. 

Oh,  I  would  buy  the  fee  o'  faith, 
To  stay  me  as  the  nights  grow  long, 

A  corner  by  the  glowing  hearth 
To  dream  in  when  the  shadows  throng- 
[182] 


And  I  would  buy  my  weary  heart 
The  right  to  croon  a  last,  sweet  song. 

To-day  the  sun  was  spent  so  soon 

I  had  no  time  for  any  play; 
The  evening  found  me  still  at  toil; 

There  was  no  laughter  in  the  day; 
And,  ah,  that  I  had  saved  a  tithe 

Of  all  the  hours  I  flung  away! 

But  June's  the  month  of  prodigals, 
And  who  has  youth  must  laugh  and  spend, 

For  every  lass  has  smiles  to  trade, 
And  every  lad's  a  needy  friend — 

And  never  looms  the  reckoning, 

And  never  gleams  the  journey's  end. 

And  so  I  spent  the  stars  o*  June, 
And  so  I  spent  the  summer  rain, 

And  now  the  solemn  harvesters 

Are  come  to  reap  the  ripened  grain, 

And,  oh,  had  I  but  Youth  and  Love 
To  spend  again,  to  spend  again! 
['183  1 


I  know  what  I  would  buy  me  now, 
With  all  my  wealth  o'  vanished  gold— 

A  corner  by  the  glowing  hearth, 

To  shield  me  from  the  winter's  cold, 

And  Love  to  sit  beside  me  there 

And  keep  my  heart  from  growing  old. 


[184] 


HUNGER 

THE  Starving  Men  they  walk  the  dusk 

With  hunger  in  their  eyes. 
To  them  a  Lighted  House  is  like 

A  lamp  of  Paradise. 

It  is  the  Window  in  the  dusk 
That  marks  the  drifter's  coast; 

It  is  the  thought  of  love  and  light 
That  mocks  the  drifter  most. 

Now  I  have  been  a  Starving  Man 
And  walked  the  winter  dusk; 

And  I  have  known  how  life  may  be 
A  Heaven  and  a  Husk.  .  .  . 

The  Fainting  Folk  they  pulled  my  sleeve, 
And  bade  me  curse  the  Light. 

But  I  had  seen  a  Rich  Man's  face 
That  looked  into  the  night. 
[185] 


A  hungry  face,  a  brother  face, 

That  stared  into  the  gloom, 
And  starved  for  life  and  starved  for  love 

Within  a  lighted  room! 


[186] 


THE  BRIDE 

FLING  her  your  roses,  red  and  white; 
She  is  the  Queen  of  the  world  to-night! 


Back  from  the  Altar, 

Turning  slow, 

Fire  and  Flower,  Dust  and  Snow — 


She  is  the  Hope  of  the  world  to-night. 
Fling  her  your  roses,  red  and  white. 


Woman  and  Angel, 

Wife  and  Maid, 

Bold  with  the  Giving,  yet  all  afraid. 


Fling  her  your  roses,  red  and  white; 
She  is  the  Youth  of  the  world  to-night! 
[187] 


Fire  o'  Spring, 

And  Faith  o'  Years, 

Laughter  and  Wonder,  Love  and  Tears. 

Fling  her  your  roses,  red  and  white; 
She  is  the  Queen  of  the  world  to-night! 


[188] 


THE  RAGGED  PIPER 

THERE  is  a  ragged  Piper  walks  the  byways  of  the 

town, 
His  eyes  are  small  and  twinkling,  and  his  cheeks 

are  full  and  brown; 
He  strolls  the  streets  at  twilight  when  the  sun  is 

sinking  low, 
And  he  sings  fa,  la,  la,  lorum  and  fa,  la,  la,  lum,  ti,  o! 

A   stranger   song   was   never   piped    beneath   the 

stars  o'  June, 
And  yet  I  trow  it  has  a  worth  beyond  the  common 

tune, 
Whatever  you  would  have  it  mean,  it  means  just 

that,  you  know, 
With  its  fa,  la,  la,  la,  lorum  and  its  fa,  la,  lum,  ti,  o! 

The  goodwives  <ft  the  town  come  out  and  lean 

above  the  gate, 
And    fold   their   hands   across   their   hearts,    and 

wait,  and  wait,  and  wait; 
[189] 


And  when  they  hea?  the  Piper's  song  they  lift 

/ 

their  hands  ancj  say, 

"He's  singing  o'  the  silken  gown  I  looked  at 
yesterday." 

Fa,    la,    la,    la,   la,   lorum    and    fa,   la,   la,   lum, 

ti,  o! 
You  hear  it  in  the  highways  when  the  siin  is 

sinking  low, 
And  if  you're  just  turned  twenty,  and  your  heart 

is  in  the  moon, 
You'll  swear  it's  love  that  -runs  so  sweet  within  the 

Piper's  tune. 

Across  the  village  thresholds  with  the  roses  climb- 
ing over, 

The  pretty  lasses  wait  until  they  hear  the  merry 
rover, 

Then  down  they  dance  with  laugh  and  shout,  to 
tread  the  moonbeams'  lace, 

And  de'il  a  one  but  thinks  the  tune  has  praised 
her  to  her  face. 

Fa,  la,  la,  la,  la,  lorum  and  fa,  la,  la,  lum, 
ti,  o! 

[190] 


You  hear  it  in  the  byways  when  the  sun  is  sink- 
ing low; 

And  the  wee  tots  at  the  windows,  and  the  lovers 
by  the  streams, 

They  wonder  how  the  Piper  guessed  the  song  to 
fit  their  dreams! 

c 

Beside  the  dying  embers  in  their  corners  of  the 

hearth 
The  old  men  sit  and   plan  their  ways  across  a 

fairer  earth, 
And  on  their  ears  the  Piper's  song  falls  like -a 

faint  caress  ^ 

Of  old,  forgotten  voices  blurred  with  new-world 

tenderness. 

Fa,   la,   la,   la,   la,    lorum    and    fa,   la,    la,    lum, 

ti,  o! 
You  hear  it  through  the  houses  when  the  sun  is 

sinking  low, 
And  the  poets  in  their  attics  don  the  plumage  of 

their  quills, 
And  send  their  souls  by  wing  o*  song  to  God's 

eternal  hills. 

[191] 


I've  never  seen  this  fellow  with  his  silly  wordless 

tune, 
But  to-night  I  heard  his  merry  pipe  beneath  the 

full  gold  moon; 
And   straightway   I   began   to   pen  this   brilliant 

ballad-o, 
Fa,  la,  la,  la,  la,  lorum  and  fa,  la,  la,  lum,  ti,  o! 


[192] 


s\j*~ASi  .- 


SISTERS  OF  THE  CROSS  OF  SHAME 

THE  Sisters  of  the  Cross  of  Shame, 

They  smile  along  the  night; 
Their  houses  stand  with  shuttered  souls 

And  painted  eyes  of  light. 

Their  houses  look  with  scarlet  eyes 

Upon  a  world  of  sin; 
And  every  man  cries,  "Woe,  alas!" 

And  every  man  goes  in. 

The  sober  Senate  meets  at  noon, 

To  pass  the  Woman's  Law, 
The  portly  Churchmen  vote  to  stem 

The  torrent  with  a  straw. 

The  Sister  of  the  Cross  of  Shame, 
She  smiles  beneath  her  cloud — 

(She  does  not  laugh  till  ten  o'clock, 
And  then  she  laughs  too  loud.) 

13  I  *93  1 


And  still  she  hears  the  throb  of  feet 

Upon  the  scarlet  stair, 
And  still  she  dons  the  cloak  of  shame 

That  is  not  hers  to  wear. 

The  sons  of  saintly  women  come 
To  kiss  the  Cross  of  Shame; 

Before  them,;  in  another  time, 
Their  worthy  fathers  came. 

And  no  man  tells  his  son  the  truth, 

And  no  man  dares  to  tell; 
And  Innocence  goes  laughing  through 

The  little  doors  of  hell.  .  .  . 

% 

The  Sisters  of  the  Cross  of  Shame, 
They  smile  along  the  night, 

And  on  their  shadowed  window-sills, 
They  place  a  scarlet  light — 

They  place  a  scarlet  light  to  draw 
The  soul  that  flutters  by — 

And  still  the  portly  Churchman  prays, 
And  still  the  young  men  die. 


And  still  the  portly  Churchmen  pray, 
And  still  the  Senate  meets, 

And  jftilL'the  scarlet  houses  stand 
Along  the  bitter  streets — 

And  no  man  tells  his  son  the  truth, 
Lest  he  should  speak  of  sin; 

And  every  man  cries,  "Woe,  alas!" 
And  every  man  goes  in. 


I9S  1 


POEM  FOR  EASTER 

THE  roses  on  my  Lady's  hat 
Are  colored  like  the  dawn — 

The  crimson  of*a  child's  round  cheek 
Before  its  tife  is  drawn. 

The  lilies  at  my  Lady's  breast 
Are  pale  as  driven  snow — 

The  color  of  the  dead  child's  face 
Who  toiled  to  make  them  so. 


[196] 


IN  A  DEATH  HOUSE 

(SPRING) 

THEY  tell  me  it  is  Spring  again 

Beyond  the  prison  wall; 
They  tell  me  that  the  hollyhocks 

Have  flowered  and  grown  tall — 
But  I  have  crossed  another  day 

From  those  that  are  my  all. 

The  thrush  that  thrills  the  scented  wood 

With  flutings  to  his  mate, 
The  gold-cheeked  day  that  sinks  to  rest 

Beyond  the  western  gate, 
Have  only  forged  another  link 

To  bind  me  to  my  fate. 

A  link  of  song,  a  link  of  sun 

And  bitterer  for  that; 
Say  I:   If  man  must  die  for  sin 

Give  him  a  good  black  hat, 
[197] 


Bind  up  his  eyes  with  cloths  of  night 
And  kill  him  like  a  rat. 

But  light  and  song  are  freedom's  wear, 
And  even  death-doomed  men 

However  they  may  lock  their  brains 
Fall  dreaming  now  and  then, 

And  see  the  white-topped  daisy-fields 
Go  marching  up  a  glen. 

And  that  is  worse  than  any  death 
That  mortal  man  may  die; 

To  see  a  hill  within  the  soul 
And  stone  walls  with  the  eye, 

To  make  a  mark  upon  a  slate 
And  mean  a  day  gone  by: 

That  is  the  measure  of  the  woe 
My  world  must  have  of  me; 

Slow  torture  of  a  thousand  dreams, 
That  mark  the  soul  set  free: 

Remembered  wings  against  the  sky, 
Remembered  sails  at  sea. 
[198] 


It  is  the  thought,  it  is  the  dream 

That  swells  the  price  I  pay. 
And  why  should  any  world  of  flesh 

Fling  its  own  flesh  away? 
If  I  have  still  the  soul  to  dream 

I  am  not  worthless  clayl 

I  would  the  fools  who  judged  me  here 

Within  a  cell  of  stone, 
Might  sit  beside  me  one  long  night, 

Or,  better,  sit  alone, 
And  think  of  Spring  and  birds  and  hills, 

And  hollyhocks,  half  grown.  .  .  . 

Oh,  had  my  Judges  wit  enough, 

And  courage  to  be  wise, 
They  still  might  drag  the  blood-stained  hand 

Into  the  midnight  skies, 
To  grip  at  gods  and  grasp  at  stars 

And  cling  to  Paradise. 

My  Priests  do  not  deny  me  God, 
But  earth  denies  me  man. 


She  puts  a  value  on  my  soul 

That  lifts  the  future  ban; 
She  sends  me  up  to  Heaven's  door 

To  break  it  if  I  can. 

She  might  have  done  a  finer  thing 

And  kept  me  at  her  side; 
What  will  she  make  of  all  my  dust 

When  I  have  paid  and  died? 
The  justice  that  she  murders  with 

Is  only  wasted  pride. 

Because  my  hand  is  scarlet-stained 

With  Cain's  most  scarlet  blot, 
My  Judge  must  thrust  his  finger-tips 

Into  that  selfsame  pot, 
And  kill  with  judgments,  calm  and  cold, 

Where  I  killed  flaming  hot! 

"Who  kills  must  pay,"  my  Judges  cry, 
And  straightway  wield  the  knife. 

Come,  then,  I'll  pay  with  dreams  and  death, 
And  you  shall  pay  with  life, 

You  shall  pay  drop  by  living  drop 
For  Tears  and  Hate  and  Strife! 
[  200] 


You  shall  not  know  the  utmost  worth 

Of  any  living  thing; 
You  shall  not  know  how  Heaven  hangs 

Upon  a  swallow's  wing, 
Or  how  God's  very  all  may  be 

A  daisy-field  in  Spring! 

I  have  a  treasure  in  my  soul 

That  all  my  world  has  not; 
For  I  have  measured  life  and  love 

Against  my  hand's  red  blot, 
And  I  know  now  that  slaying  cold 

Is  worse  than  slaying  hot. 

You  will  not  take  the  priceless  thing 
That  looks  out  from  my  eyes; 

You  will  not  make  my  stain  a  star, 
And  set  it  in  the  skies, 

You  will  not  take  the  word  of  hell 
To  prove  your  Paradise! 

So  I  shall  die;   a  wasted  thing, 
For  want  of  better  price; 
[201] 


A  prey  to  Justice  that  must  fall 

As  blind  as  whited  dice, 
But  they  who  judged  me  here  shall  pay 

An  endless  sacrifice.  .  .  . 

They  tell  me  it  is  Spring  again 

Beyond  the  prison  pall; 
They  tell  me  that  the  hollyhocks 

Have  flowered  and  grown  tall, 
But  I  have  crossed  my  life's  last  day 

From  those  upon  my  wall. 

A  death-doomed  man  may  sometimes  dream 

Beyond  life's  little  door; 
And,  dreaming,  come  at  last  to  see 

His  matter  to  the  core, 
And  know  himself  more  fit  to  live 

Than  e'er  he  was  before. 

They  tell  me  that  the  grass  is  green 

Upon  the  prison  lawn; 
They  tell  me  that  there  lives  a  light 

When  all  the  day  is  gone — 
They  think  it  is  an  evening  light, 

O  Blind!     It  is  the  dawn! 
I  2O21 


IN  A  GARRET 

I 
FOUR  walls,  eh? 

Ceiling  cracked  and  smudged,;  you  say? 
Nonsense,  it's_heaven  if  you  have  the  eye 
To  twist  gray  plaster  into  vaulted  sky! 
And  here's  the  little  daub  that  Petri  made, 

Petri,  the  artist,  from  the  floor  below, 
Who  laughs  and  says  that  dreams  are  not  a  trade. 

Better,  1  1  think,  because  he  loved  it  so, 
Far  better  than  if  he  had  preened  his  wit> 
To  trick  some  fat  purse  into  buying  it. 
Now/like  a  god  he  gives  his  painted  sea 
And  one  white  ship  that  sets  the  whole  room  free, 
Blots  the  gray  wall  and  lifts  a  gallant  wing 
For  our  adventuring! 


Come,  let's  crumble  them  away! 
You  and  I, 

Build  us  a  world  of  sea  and  sail  and  sky. 
[203] 


The  mind  gives  title  where  the  law  gives  none. 
The  soul  has  more  possessions  than  the  sun. 
Here's  Petri's  art! //That  proves  a  man  may  go 

Into  more  worlds  than  wait  upon  his  purse. 
See,  where  his  brush  has  made  the  water  glow! 

That's  wealth  without  wealth's  curse. 
And  here  where  morning  trembles  on  the  skies 
Is  freedom  and  a  hint  of  paradise. 
And  you  and  I  have  love!     Shall  we  not  dare 

Farther  than  Petri?     Here's  the  lamp  of  art 
Lighting  the  road.  .  .  .  Come,  there  are  worlds  to 
share, 

And  you  and  I  shall  share  them,  O  my  heart! 


[204] 


THE  DREADNOUGHT 

ONE  Fall  they  sent  a  fighting-ship  to  sea, 

With  wine-stained  bows,  and  pennants  stream- 
ing gay- 
Men  watched  her  from  the  docks:    said  she  was 

fair, 
And  felt  their  hearts  lift  as  she  dimmed  away. . . . 

She  was  the  triumph  of  the  world  she  sailed, 
The  sea's  supremest,  proud  and  tall  and  fair; 

We  watched  her  to  the  far  horizon's  rim 
Until  her  smoke  thinned  to  a  single  hair; 

Then,  turning,  said  one  man  with  withered  eyes: 
"She'll  last  her  day,  and  then  she'll  rot  and 

die. 

To-morrow,  matey,  they'll  invent  her  death 
Somewhere  beyond  that  point  she  touched  the 
sky"- 

[205] 


His  vague  hands  fluttered  in  their  prophecy, 
"Somewhere  across  the  world  they'll  sweat  and 
scheme, 

And  break  their  hearts  behind  their  secret  doors, 
To  find  a  murderer  for  Steel  and  Steam.  .  .  . 

"A  German,  mebbe,  or  a  Japanee 

Will   guess    at   heavier    guns — and   then   she'll 

fall. 
I  know  her  breed!     I  fought  the  Merrimac 

In  sixty-two.  .  .  .  What  benefits  it  all?" 

But  we,  who  still  stood  watching  her  dark  hair, 
Mocked  him  to  silence:  one  by  one  we  hailed 

Her  strength,  her  beauty — smiled  and  drifted  on, 
Boasting  that  we  had  seen  her  as  she  sailed. 


Three  years  she  reigned;    three  years  we  spoke  of 

her, 

Vaunting  her  name  along  the  waterside; 
Then  came  the  news — a  newer,  foreign  ship 
Of   heavier   guns.  .  .  .  Slowly    our    old    faiths 
died. 

[206] 


Another  Fall  we  gathered  on  the  docks, 

To  watch  her  creep  back  through  the  autumn 
rain; 

Her  men  stood  dully  at  her  sullen  breasts, 
Knowing  that  she  would  never  sail  again. 

She  came  like  some  vast  Sorrow,  brooding,  slow, 
Damned  by  her  dead  perfection,  hugely  sad; 

I  heard  a  voice  behind  me  in  the  rain: 

"Three    years!    Three    little    years    is    all    she 
had"- 

The  rain  dripped  down,  and  then  the  voice  again: 
"Three  years!     My  youngest  died  three  years 

ago — 
Plain  starved,  they  said.  .  .  .  And  yonder  in  the 

Roads.  .  .  . 

Ah,  mates,  in  God's  name  why  should  life  be 
so?" 

We  turned;    a  man  stood  with  uplifted  hands, 
A  laborer,  with  Death  upon  his  face, 

And  in  his  eyes  the  dumb  bewilderment 
Of  those  who  wear  injustice  for  the  race. 
[207] 


And  still  the  great,  gray  ship  came  creeping  in, 
Sullen  and  sad.  ...  I  heard  his  laugh  ring  wild: 

"For  what  it  costs  to  feed  her  lightest  gun 
I   might   have   saved   my  little   child  .  .  .  my 

child!" 

A  vision  smote  us  of  an  Iron  God 

That  taxed  the  world  with  fearful  wrack  and 

pain; 
We  saw  the  unguessed  sacrifice  of  souls — 

Dead  faces  on  the  canvas  of  the  rain.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  a  man  with  withered  eyes 

And  vague,  wan  hands  came  leering  through 
the  crowd — 

"I  said  she'd  fall,"  he  quavered,  gesturing; 
"I  know  her  breed!    The  Merrimac  was  proud. 

* 

"But,  mates,  she  passed."  .  .  .  His  voice  trailed 
off;  was  still. 

There  was  no  sound  except  the  drear  rain's  fall. 
We  watched  the  dead  ship  creeping  to  her  grave — 

I  thought  again:    what  benefits  it  all? 

[208] 


"WHO  DREAMS  SHALL  LIVE" 

WHO  dreams  shall  live!    And  if  we  do  not  dream 

Then  we  shall  build  no  Temple  into  Time. 

Yon  dust  cloud,  whirling  slow  against  the  sun, 

Was  yesterday's  cathedral,  stirred  to  gold 

By  heedless  footsteps  of  a  passing  world. 

The  faiths  of  stone  and  steel  are  failed  of  proof, 

The  King  who  made  religion  of  a  Sword 

Passes,  and  is  forgotten  in  a  day. 

The  crown  he  wore  rots  at  a  lily's  root, 

The  rose  unfurls  her  banners  o'er  his  dust. 

The  dreamer  dies,  but  never  dies  the  dream, 
Though  Death  shall  call  the  whirlwind  to  his  aid, 
Enlist  men's  passions,  trick  their  hearts  with  hate, 
Still  shall  the  Vision  live!     Say  nevermore 
That  dreams  are  fragile  things.     What  else  endures 
Of  all  this  broken  world  save  only  dreams! 


[209 


WAYFARERS 

THEY  were  met  in  the  Last  Inn's  tap-room,  where 

the  road  strikes  hands  with  the  sea, 
And   one   was   come   from   a  weary   ship   that 

slept  with  folded  sail, 
And  one  was  come  from  the  brown  highroad  that 

spins  across  the  lea, 

The  third  sat  by  the  glowing  hearth  and  sipped 
a  mug  of  ale. 


The  sailor  said:    "It's  good  to  be  where  warmth 

and  safety  are. 
I'm  weary  of  great  waters  and  the  never-broken 

sky; 
I'm  sick  of  hanging  dizzy  to  the  death-end  of  a 

spar; 

I  want   another  sort  of  life  before  I  come  to 
die. 

[210] 


"I  want  a  bit  of  meadow,  where  the  grass  is  to 

my  knees. 
And  a  little  patch  where  I  can  kneel  and  watch 

the  green  things  grow. 
I  want  to  look  at  flowers,  cool  my  eyes  with 

blooms  and  trees. 

I  am  weary  of  great  waters  where  the  blind  white 
vessels  go." 


The  landsman  said:    "The  sea  is  wide  and  ships 

are  graceful  things, 
No  man  may  say  his  life  is  done  until  he  dares 

the  deep. 
When  I  was  but  a  lad  I  dreamed  of  vessels  with 

white  wings, 

And  ghostly  galleons  made  bold  adventure  of 
my  sleep. 


"I  know  a  little  meadow,  like  the  hollow  of  God's 

hand, 

And  if  you  have  a  mind  to  trade  I'll  tell  you 
where  it  lies, 

[211] 


And  I  will  take  your  seaman's  berth  and  you  will 

take  my  land. 

And  you  will  look  at  blossoms  for  the  cooling 
of  your  eyes. 


"But  I  will  look  at  naked  things  and  find  their 

utmost  worth, 
Learn   wisdom   from   the   Book   of  Stars   that 

guides  me  through  the  wave. 
Your  life  for  mine!     Come,  will  you  trade  blue 

water  for  brown  earth?" 

"Aye,"  said  the  sailor.     "Life  for  life  and  grave 
for  certain  grave." 


The  drinker  by  the  fire  stirred  .and  spake  with 

curling  lips. 
"What  fools,"  he  said,  "what  fools  ye  be!"  and 

looked  into  their  eyes. 
"Let  landsmen  cleave  unto  the  land  and  sailors 

keep  their  ships, 

For  he  who  seeks  to  prove  a  dream  shall  lose 
his  Paradise!" 

[212] 


The  morning  thrust  a  golden  face  in  at  the  tavern 

door, 
The  day  wind  blew  upon  the  sea  and  rippled 

through  the  grass, 
And  one  man  sailed  in  a  white-winged  ship  and 

one  stayed  on  the  shore, 

The  third  sat  by  the  glowing  hearth  and  smiled 
into  his  glass. 


[213  1 


MY  saint  lies  sleeping,  robed  in  white, 

A  single  lily  at  her  breast, 
The  sum  of  all  her  perfect  years 

In  one  white  bloom  expressed. 

A  lily  in  her  folded  hands 

And  over  all  her  stillness,  Light, 

As  one  who  bears  a  lamp  into 
The  contemplated  night. 

Oh,  more  than  all  inspired  words 
Of  God's  most  shining  ministers 

Earth  finds  its  hope  of  heaven  proved 
In  that  sure  faith  of  hers. 

Then  wake  her  not  with  any  tears 
From  out  her  miracle  of  rest; 

She  sleeps,  with  all  her  perfect  years 
Laid  whitely  at  her  breast. 
[214] 


And  so,  farewell!     For  Love  and  Hope 
Shall  stand  as  angels  at  her  tomb, 

But,  ah,  to  bear  the  silent  house, 
The  aching,  empty  room! 


[215] 


SONG  FOR  YOUTH 

GATHER  all  the  sweet  of  May 
Lock  it  tenderly  away, 
Precious  night  and  perfect  day. 

Make  a  trove  of  shining  things, 
Roses,  raindrops,  dreams,  and  wings; 
Catch  a  skylark  while  he  sings! 

Gather  all  the  summer's  sweet, 
Hush  of  heaven,  song  of  street, 
Stars  that  dance  on  silver  feet! 

While  thy  breath  is  young  and  warm, 
While  love  nestles  in  thy  arm, 
Take  thy  trove  and  weave  a  charm. 

Then  grow  old  with  gallant  ease, 
For  I'm  told  such  wealths  as  these — 
Make  the  fairest  memories! 
[216! 


THE  VAGABOND 

OLD  Time  has  turned  his  pockets  out 

And  here's  a  golden  day. 
And  if  I  spend  it  foolishly 

There's  none  to  say  me  nay  I 

Tramping  down  the  highroad, 

Spending  as  I  go, 
Sleeping  in  the  shadowed  dales 

Where  the  daisies  blow, 
Waking  with  the  meadow-larks. 

When  the  world* s  aglow! 

Emperors  have  purple  cloaks, 
And  vagabonds  have  none, 

But  who  will  wear  the  lighter  crown 
When  all  the  roads  are  run? 

Light  upon  the  hilltops, 
Glory  in  the  sky! 
[217] 


Who  will  have  the  cleaner  gold 

When  we  come  to  die? 
Who  will  have  the  greater  wealthy 

Emperor  or  I? 

Time  has  turned  his  pockets  out 

And  here's  a  bit  of  gold, 
And  you  will  hoard,  and  I  will  spend, 

And  we  will  both  grow  old. 

When  the  count  is  settled, 

Who  shall  -profit  more, 
You  who  hoarded  God  away? 

I  who  spent  my  store? 
Who  will  lay  the  richer  heart 

Down  at  Heaven's  door? 


[218) 


LIFE 

A  LITTLE  road  went  laughing 

From  the  willows  by  the  stream; 
It  ran  to  dustygoid  distance, 

Dropped,/  and  lifted  all  agleam; 

Tripped,  and  fell  into  a  hollow, 

/ 

Where  it  called  to  me  to  follow — 
And  I  followed  it  as  children  do  the  byways  of 
a  dream. 

It  spun  through  shining  grasses 

Where  the  feet  of  Spring  had  gone, 
And  it  stole  down  to  the  brookside 
Like  a  timid  thirsty  fawn; 

Kissed  the  reed-rush,  and  thereafter, 
With  a  sort  of  breathless  laughter, 
Spurned  the  plain  /and  stormed  the  mountain 
like  a  footpath  of  the  dawn! 

So,  laughing,  reached  the  summit 
By  an  ancient  water-stair; 
[219] 


Poised  on  high  as  though  to  venture 
Further  journeys  through  the  air; 
And  so,  hov'ring,  drew  me  even 
To  the  outer  edge  of  heaven — 
Drew  me   outward   to  the   utmost   edge-^-and 
laughed, /and  left  me  there. 


[  220] 


POEMS    ABOUT    TOWN 


THE  WOOLWORTH  BUILDING 

I  AM  one  of  the  things  at  your  feet, 
I  have  laughter  and  hope  and  tears — 

But  you  have  the  Clouds  and  the  Wind, 
And  the  hallowed  defiance  of  years. 

You  are  stuff  of  the  dreams  that  I  dream; 

You  are  Beauty,  made  tall  and  white, 
And  you  live  with  your  foot  on  the  rock, 

And  your  face  to  the  fountains  of  light! 

I  am  part  of  the  world  at  your  feet, 
I  have  sorrow  and  laughter  and  days, 

But  you  have  unmeasurable  dawns, 
And  the  firmness  outlasting  the  phase. 

You  are  God  in  a  sermon  of  stone, 

The  dim  God  that  we  search  at  your  feet; 

You  are  faith  lifted  unto  the  stars, 

But  we  do  not  look  up  from  our  street. 
[223] 


We  do  not  look  up  from  our  tears, 

To  call  you  divine  as  we  go; 
But  you  are  the  temple  we  built, 

And  then  did  not  know,  did  not  know! 


224] 


JIMSY 

JIMSY  is  a  little  chap, 

Only  nine  or  so;  / 

Has  to  use  a  wooden  crutch 
(Says  it  doesn't  bother  much)- 

Jimsy's  lame,  you  know. 


Jimsy  has  a  cheery  way — 
Never  saw  him  glum — 

Jimsy's  face  is  sort  o'  thin, 
But  you  ought  to  see  him  grin, 
Cheers  a  fellow  some! 


Jimsy's  got  a  yellow  dog — 
Sorry  little  tyke! 

Never  leaves  his  master's  side — 
Guess  he'd  die  if  Jimsy  died — 
Never  saw  the  like. 
15  [  225  ] 


Jimsy  greets  me  every  night— 
"Here's  yer  poiper,  Boss/' 
When  the  other  newsies  play, 
Jimsy  turns  his  eyes  away — 
That  is  Jimsy's  cross. 

If  I  ever  do  a  thing 

Brave/or  kind/  or  true, 

If  I  give  a  squarer  deal-A 
It's  because  I  sort  o'  feel 

Jimsy  'd  want  me  to. 


[  226 


THE  WINDOW  POSTER 

WE  stood,  a  little  wistful,  shivering  group, 
Before  a  window.     It  was  such  a  day 

As  March  wears  in  her  wildest  moods;    but  we 
Walked  a  blue  city  by  a  sapphire  bay. 

Above  us  bowed  the  courtiers  of  the  palms, 
Stirred  to  a  stately  homage  by  the  breeze; 

A  jeweled  city  slumbered  at  our  feet, 

Clasped  in  the  arms  of  tender,  languid  seas. 

A  vagabond  stole  in  beside  me  then, 

A  graybeard  with  a  pinched  cheek  and  a  cough. 

He  said:  "I'd  like  right  well  to  go  there,  pard, 
Just  once  before  my  trouble  takes  me  off.  .  .  ." 

A  little  woman  with  a  face  of  crowds, 

And  loneliness,  of  noisy  shops  too  shrill, 
And  tawdry  rooms  too  silent,  raised  her  hand 
Smutched  with  cheap  rings,   and  touched  the 
window-sill. 

[227] 


Then  with  a  shrug  she  turned  and  faced  us  all; 

Her  faded  eyes  were  cheapened  of  their  dreams. 
"Touch  it  and  see,  you  fools!"  She  laughed  aloud. 

"I'm  going  home!  The  cold's  got  through  my 
seams." 

Slowly  we  crept  away.     The  vagabond 
Set  his  face  whitely  to  the  winter  hosts, 

The  Sapphire  City  faded  .  .  .  but  I  knew 

Its  streets  were  thronged  with  weary,  wistful 
ghosts. 


[228] 


THE  OUTCAST 

A  MAN  died  in  the  open  park  to-day — 
Dropped  down  upon  the  new  green  grass  and  slept 
With  his  face  turned  toward  the  little  sailing  clouds 
That  went  with  shining  wings  along  the  sky. 

He  was  a  laborer.,    He  had  not  seen 
The  clouds  go  ever  sailing  down  the  blue; 
But  all  his  bitter  days  had  cast  his  eyes 
At  Misery's  boot-heels,/ as  she  led  him  on. 

He  lay  now  with  that  still  surprise  of  Death 
Upon  his  face,  as  though  before  he  died 
His  startled  soul  had  paused/ between  his  lips 
To  wonder  at  the  sails  along  the  sky. 

His  shabby  hat  was  off.     His  hair  seemed  damp 
With  some  last  sweat  of  toil,  and  it  was  gray 
And  like  an  iron  halo  on  his  brow — 
And  there  was  some  great  wonder  folding  him. 
f  229] 


His  coat  lacked  even  patches;    there  was  no 
Soft  mark  of  woman's  fingers  on  the  cloth — 
His  hands  stretched  lifeless  from  the  raveled  sleeves, 
And  his  poor  boots  were  worn  to  nakedness. 

About  him,  in  the  sunlight  stood  a  crowd, 
A  throng  of  idlers,  staring,  curious; 
And  down  the  drives  the  rolling  limousines 
Moved  with  their  lithe,  rich  smoothness  past  the 
place — 

But  he  lay  still  and  looked  upon  the  sky, 
Upon  the  little  sailing  clouds  that  went 
Like  ships  of  silver  down  their  lovely  seas, 
And  at  the  sunlight,  shining  in  their  sails.  .  .  . 

He  was  a  laborer,  and  all  his  years 
Were  reaped  at  Misery's  boot-heels  ...  so  he  lay 
With  his  tremendous  wonder  folding  him, 
And  looked  nis  first  upon  the  splendid  sky! 


[230] 


SUBWAY  TRACK-WALKERS 

WHO  are  ye  hopeless  who  go  with  dull  faces, 
Treading  the  terrible  floorways  of  night? 

Oft  have  I  seen  ye  flick  by  in  the  shadow, 
Framed  from  the  dark  by  a  flutter  of  light. 


Do  ye  gaze  up  at  the  hurtling  windows, 

Streaking  your  dusk-world  with  sudden  bright 

lanes? 
Do    ye    dream    dreams    of   the    lights    and    the 

faces  ? 
Do  ye  think  thoughts  of  the  eyes  at  the  panes  ? 


Far  is  your  path  through  the  burrows  of  darkness! 

Fearful  the  death  if  ye  falter  or  blunder! 
Once  I  saw  one  of  you  caught  in  the  whirlwind, 
Hurled    to    his    fathers    with    steel    and    great 
thunder.  .  .  . 

[231] 


What  is  your  vision,  and  where  is  your  meaning? 

Do  ye  walk  only  for  Saturday's  pay? 
Or  are  ye  sent  for  a  desperate  service 

That  1  may  ride  to  my  true  love  to-day? 


[232] 


THE  HAND-ORGAN  MAN 

HE  stands  in  his  rags  at  the  sun-spattered  curb, 

A  swarthy  brown  fellow  of  tatters  and  smiles, 

Above  his  black  curls  are  the  vagabond  skies, 

The  light  of  long  journeying  lurks  in  his  eyes, 

And  over  his  shoulder  are  yesterday's  miles.  .  .  . 

His  coat  it  is  broken,  his  airs  are  outworn, 
Yet  somehow  we  pause  on  the  sidewalk  to  hear — 
The  children  come  running,  with  May  in  their 

feet, 

To  dance  to  his  tunes  in  the  clattering  street, 
And  Age  at  its  window  looks  down  with  a  tear. 

So  out  of  the  clamor  and  toil  of  the  day 
The  Organ-Man  comes,  with  a  nondescript  tune, 
A  smile  in  his  eyes  where  the  world's  wisdoms 

are, 

A  heart  in  his  breast  like  a  struggling  star — 
And  over  his  shoulder  a  garment  of  June, 


Lord  of  the  Summer,  come  up  from  the  South! 
Come,  little  Organ-Man,  come  to  my  street, 

Play  me  old  Aprils  of  sunlight  and  rain; 

Play  me  the  long-ago  Springtimes  again! 
Play  .  .  .  till  the  world  is  once  more  at  my  feet! 


[234! 


THE  MILLS  HOTEL 

IN  from  the  ends  of  the  Highway,   weary   and 

spent  they  came, 
Seared  with  the  scars  of  hoping,  tagged  with  a 

bit  of  name; 
There  in  the  warmth  they  gathered,  letting  their 

garments  steam, 
And  never  a  heart  in  the  Motley   but  flaunted  its 

rags  o'  dream! 


Out  of  the  mouths  of  ditches,  up  from  the  holds 

of  ships, 
With  grime  on  their  broken  fingers,  and  life  on 

their  gray  grim  lips, 
They  slouched  in  the  dingy  hallways,  the  queer, 

the  strange,  the  odd, 
And  never  a  face  went    by  me  but   glowed  with  a 

flash  of  God! 

1235] 


Lost  in  a  Book  of  Silence,  their  strangest  stories  lie, 

Tales  of  the  Greater  Service,  that  run  when  work- 
men die; 

And  so  they  came  from  the  ditches,  the  deep 
ships  and  the  sea, 

And  never  a  soul  in  the  shelter  but  carried  a  scar 
for  me! 


[236] 


THE  UNEMPLOYED 

THEY  did  not  ask  for  lordly  things, 

For  temples  or  for  lands; 
They  only  asked  ^he-light  to  use 

The  glory  of  their  hands. 

I  never  saw  a  sadder  thing 
Beneath  God's  vaulted  blue 

Than  that  grim  line  of  staryingmgn^ 
Who  had  no  tasKto  do. 

They  came  before  the  frozen  stars 

Had  faded  from  the  sky, 
And  all  day  long  the  wealthy  folk 

Rolled  curiously  by. 

And  all  day  long  the  waiting  line 
Stood  shaking  in  the  street. 

And,  oh,  tkeirjwilling,  idle  hanjs! 
And,  oh,  their  aching  feet! 
[237] 


1  never  saw  a  sadder  thing 

In  all  the  City's  strife 
Than  that  worn  host  of  ragged  men 

Who  waited  there  for  life. 

They  did  not  ask  for  alms  of  gold, 
Nor  things  of  lordly  worth. 

They  only  asked  l;he  right  to  share 
The  labor  of  the  earth. 


[238] 


THE  BREAD-LINE 

THE  word  went  down  the  moaning  street, 

Through  the  rotting  rooms  where  the  children  cry 
And  the  broken  mothers  die — 

Bread!     Free  Bread! 

"Go  forth,"  they  said, 
"And  see  if  the  little  whispers  lie." 

The  coughing  men  went  forth  to  see. 
They  came  in  herds,  like  starving  goats, 
And  they  shook  in  their  threadbare  coats; 
"Is  it  true,"  they  said, 
"That  ye  give  us  bread?" 
(And  their  hands  clutched  white  at  their  icy 
throats.) 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  men  by  the  stacked  brown 

loaves, 

And  they  smiled  with  a  wonderful  slow,  sad 
smile. 

[239] 


But  the  line  stretched  half  a  mile — 

"Bread,  free  bread, 

It  is  life,"  they  said, 
"It  is  life  and  hope  for  a  little  while." 

I  said  to  a  starved  soul  passing  in, 

"The  theory's  wrong — all  wrong,  you  know, 
A  wise  man  found  it  so." 

He  raised  his  head, 

And  with  blanched  lips  said, 
"Was  the  wise  man  ever  hungry,  Bo?" 


[240] 


FROM  AN  "L"  TRAIN  WINDOW 

I  SAW  bent  figures  toiling  in  a  dusk 
That  seemed  beyond  the  reaches  of  the  Day, 

Pinched  faces  at  the  grimy  window  squares, 
Youth  turned  to  something   wracked   and  old 
and  gray. 

I  had  left  sunshine  on  my  study  floor, 
Laughter  behind  me  in  a  woman's  eyes, 

Paintings  and  books  and  friendly  smiling  things, 
The  sum  of  which  is  mortal  paradise. 

Yet  here  in  that  same  world  bent  figures  toiled 
From  gloomy  windows  to  the  deeps  of  gloom, 

Thin-fingered  women,  sad  as  prisoners, 
Plied  glinting  needles  in  a  coffin'd  room. 

The  Quarter  Lodgers,  sprawled  upon  a  bench, 
Read  crumpled  papers  in  the  half-slain  light, 

Draining  the  sordid  romance  of  the  press, 
Finding  some  little  comfort  from  their  plight. 
16  [  241 1 


And  then  a  child,  with  eyes  to  break  my  heart 
Leaned  from  a  window  and  with  hands  that 
shook 

Poured  water  on  a  dead  geranium — 
And  that  alone  was  worth  a  wise  man's  book. 

End  o'  the  line,  and  lifting  overhead, 

As  in  a  graveyard  costly  shafts  are  wrought, 

The  House  of  Government,  white  to  the  sun, 
And  in  one  room  a  fat  man,  doing  naught. 


[242] 


OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT 

OUT  of  the  blur  and  the  drift  of  the  faces, 

Out  of  the  night, 
She  comes  in  the  cloak  of  a  purpling  shadow, 

Into  the  light. 

Over  her  head  burns  the  guttering  street-lamp, 

Touching  her  face — 
The  crowd  surges  by  her  with  jest  or  with  loathing, 

Grudging  her  place. 

Men  in  the  garments  of  Priests  and  of  Savants 

Pass  with  no  word — 
She  leans  at  the  lamp-post,  half  dead  and  all-dying, 

The  prey  of  the  herd. 

Mother  of  God,  can  you  still  grant  us  laughter, 

Seeing  her  die? 
We  who  have  murdered  thy  holiest  vessel, 

My  world  and  I! 

[243] 


'TwAS  a  long-ago  summer  when  Romance  and  I 
Came  trudging  to  Washington  Square, 

And,  oh,  what  a  laughter  illumined  the  walls 
Of  our  room  at  the  top  of  the  stair — 

Our  poor  little,  odd  little  jest  of  a  room 
At  the  top  of  the  boarding-house  stair! 

Laughter,  and  Youth,  and  a  heart  for  the  game, 
The  short  road  to  Love,  and  the  long  road  to  Fame; 
And  all  roads  before  us  and  all  roads  to  dare, 
And  that  was  the  glory  of  Washington  Square! 

Romance  was  twenty  and  I  was  no  more, 

And  there  was  a  window,  you  see, 
That  gave  us  the  park  and  a  bit  of  the  sky, 

And  sometimes  a  breath  from  the  sea; 
And  small,  ragged  children  would  pause  in  their 

play 

To  laugh  up  at  Romance  and  me. 
[  244  1 


Children,  and  Wind,  and  the  blue  sky  above. 
The  drear  road  to  Fame,  and  the  dear  road  to  Love; 
And  all  roads  beginning  and  all  roads  to  dare. 
And  that  was  the  wonder  of  Washington  Square! 

I  think  I  was  painting  the  face  of  a  dream, 

And  Romance  was  posing  in  red, 
And  daylight  was  only  the  throb  of  my  heart, 

And  the  tremble  of  sun  on  her  head, 
And  twilight  was  only  the  sound  of  her  voice, 

And  the  sense  of  a  radiance  fled. 

Twilight,  and  Dawn,  and  the  dream  without  name. 
The  fair  road  to  Love,  and  the  far  road  to  Fame; 
The  star  of  her  face  and  the  light  of  her  hair, 
And  that  was  the  vision  of  Washington  Square. 

The  gold  of  earth's  giving  has  lain  in  my  purse, 

Of  laurel  I've  taken  my  share — 
But  where  is  the  laughter  that  hallowed  our  room 

At  the  top  of  the  boarding-house  stair? 
And  where  are  the  Children,  and  where  is  the 

Dream 

That  led  me  to  Washington  Square? 
[245] 


Laughter,  and  Youth,  and  a  heart  for  the  game, 
The  old  road  to  Love,  and  the  bold  road  to  Fame; 
And  all  roads  beginning  and  all  roads  to  dare, 
And  that  was  the  glory  of  Washington  Square! 


[246] 


DIALECT    POEMS 


THE  ROAD  TO  VAGABONDIA 

'E  WAS    sittin'  on  a  door-step 

As  I  went  strollin'  by; 
A  lonely  little  beggar 

With  a  wistful,  'omesick  eye — 
An*  'e  weren't  the  kind  you'd  borrow, 

An'  'e  weren't  the  kind  you'd  steal, 
But  I  guessed  'is  'eart  was  breakin', 

So  I  w'istled  'im  to  'eel. 

They  'ad  stoned  'im  through  the  city  streets,  and 

naught  the  city  cared, 
But   I   was   'eadin'   out'ard,    and   the    roads   are 

sweeter  shared, 
So  I  took  'im  for  a  comrade,  and  I  w'istled  'im 

away — 
On  the  road  to  Vagabondia,  that  lies  across  the  day! 

Yellow  dog  'e  was;    but  bless  you — 
'E  was  just  the  chap  for  me! 
[249] 


For  I'd  ruther  'ave  an  inch  o'  dog 

Than  miles  o'  pedigree. 
So  we  stole  away  together, 

On  the  road  that  'as  no  end, 
With  a  new-coined  day  to  fling  away 

And  all  the  stars  to  spend! 

Oh,  to  walk  the  road  at  mornin',  when  the  wind 

is  blowin'  clean, 
An*  the  yellow  daisies  fling  their  gold  across  a 

world  o'  green — 
For  the  wind  it  'eals  the  'eartaches,  an'  the  sun 

it  dries  the  scars, 
On  the  road  to  Vagabondia  that  lies  beneath  the 

stars. 

'Twas  the  Wonder  o'  the  Going 
.  Cast  a  spell  about  our  feet — 
An'  we  walked  because  the  world  was  young, 

Because  the  way  was  sweet; 
An*  we  slept  in  wild-rose  meadows 

By  the  little  wayside  farms, 
'Til  the  Dawn  came  up  the  'ighroad 

With  the  dead  moon  in  'er  arms. 
[250] 


Oh,  the  Dawn  it  went  before  us  through  a  shinin' 

lane  o'  skies, 
And  the  Dream  was  at  our  'eartstrings,  an'  the 

Light  was  in  our  eyes, 
An'  we  made  no  boast  of  glory  an'  we  made  no 

boast  o*  birth, 
On  the  road  to  Vagabondia  that  lies  across  the 

earth! 


I  251] 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING 

"THERE,  Mother,  they've  gone,  all  our  young  uns, 
That's  John  in  th'  new-fangled  rig, 

And  Billy  is  drivin'  his  roadster, 
And  Jim's  got  a  yellow-wheeled  gig. 

"Fred's  bought  a  new  car.     It's  a  racer. 

Pray  Heaven  it  holds  t'  th'  track! 
And  Tom's  got  a  spindle-legged  shofer 

To  drive  him  to  business  an'  back. 

"Well,  well,  times  have  changed  a  whole  jugful, 

An'  I  ain't  th'  one  to  complain; 
Our  boys  are  as  good  as  their  decade, 

There's  none  of  'em  warped  in  th'  grain. 

"But  different,  Mother,  an'  wiser, 
Not  much  like  the  old-fashioned  sort. 

We're  classed  with  oil-lamps  and  religion — 
They're  classed  with  hygienics  an*  sport. 
[252] 


"There,  there.     I  don't  mean  to  be  bitter, 
Not  now,  on  our  own  precious  night. 

Lord,  Mother,  you're  just  like  a  picture 
A-sittin'  there,  framed  in  th'  light! 

"Come,  pull  up  your  chair  to  th*  fire, 
And  put  down  those  socks  for  a  spell. 

Th'  runs  an*  th'  holes  that  you've  mended 
Would  swallow  th'  space  in  a  well. 

"There's  fifty  glad  years  in  th'  ashes, 
An'  plenty  o*  wood  in  th'  box. 

An'  this  is  a  special  occasion, 

So  put  down  that  basket  o'  socks. 

"There's  fifty  glad  years  in  th'  ashes, 
An'  more  in  th'  leapin'  red  flame; 

The  rest  o'  the  world  has  been  changin', 
But,  Mother,  we  two  are  th'  same. 

"You're  just  as  you  were  at  th'  weddin', 

A  girl,  an'  a  purty  one,  too. 
We  laid  our  first  fire  together — 

It's  lasted  us  all  the  years  through. 
[2531 


"The  flame  that  we  lighted  that  evenin' 
Is  still  mighty  bright  on  th'  hearth, 

An',  Mother,  we'll  keep  it  a-burnin' 
As  long  as  we  travel  this  earth. 

"The  new  generation  may  rule  us, 
There  ain't  no  escapin',  it  seems, 

But  Age  has  its  port  from  the  changin', 
Its  little  odd  harbor  for  dreams. 

"An'  that's  by  th'  side  o'  the  fire, 
Where  years  are  so  easy  to  spend. 

The  world  may  belong  to  our  children, 
But  we'll  be  ourselves  to  the  end. 

"So  give  me  a  kiss,  my  heart's  dearie, 
It's  love  glowin'  red  in 'our  flame. 

Though  all  th'  wide  world  has  been  changin', 
My  Sweetheart  and  I  are  the  same!" 


[254] 


HAVANA  BAY 

Now  I've  been  down  the  world,  mates, 

From  London  to  Bombay; 
I've  seen  some  pretty  harbors, 

If  you'll  let  me  have  my  say — 
But  never  was  a  sweeter  port 

Than  blue  Havana  Bay! 

Blue  as  the  eyes  of  Love,  mates, 

As  you  put  in  from  the  sea — 
With  dream-dusk  in  the  outer  depths. 

And  sapphire  at  the  quay; 
And  if  you  must  take  ship,  mates, 

From  here  to  Judgment  Day, 
You'll  never  find  a  sweeter  port 

Than  blue  Havana  Bay. 

Twas  half  a  week  to  Christmas 
When  we  rounded  Sandy  Hook, 


And  there  was  nigh  a  ton  of  ice 

In  every  sea  we  took. 
And  heading  down  to  Hatteras, 

The  cook  he  says  to  me: 
"It's  hard  to  do  your  dying 

In  a  roaring  winter  sea!" 

Twas  winter  down  our  decksy  mates, 

And  winter  in  our  spars, 
And  once  I  thought  the  foremast  light 

Was  tangled  in  the  stars, 
But  down  across  the  sky,  mates, 

And  half  a  world  away, 
The  great,  gold  dawn  was  storming  up 

To  blue  Havana  Bay. 

And  first  the  sticks  went  out  of  her, 

And  then  she  sprung  a  leak; 
(The  cook,  he  said  he'd  never  spent 

So  sad  a  Christmas  week.) 
But  then  we  rigged  a  jury-mast, 

And  cut  the  wreck  away, 
And  swung  our  broken  bowsprit  'round 

To  blue  Havana  Bay. 
[256] 


Blue  as  the  eyes  of  Love,  mates> 

As  you  put  in  from  the  sea — 
With  dream-dusk  in  the  outer  depths. 

And  sapphire  at  the  quay; 
And,  oh,  to  see  the  shadow 

Oj 'old  Morro  lifting  gray 
As  you  stumble  down  the  Cuba  coast 

To  blue  Havana  Bay! 

Now  I've  been  down  the  world,  mates, 

From  London  to  Bombay, 
But  never  will  my  soul  forget 

The  glory  of  that  day 
When  we  came  down  from  the  coast  of  Death, 

To  blue  Havana  Bay. 


[2571 


MAGGIE  McFAY 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  TRAFFIC  SQUAD 

THIS  is  the  story  av  Maggie  McFay, 
And  Dennis  O'Toole  av  the  Squad, 

A  Ser-rgint  av  mounted  police  be  rank 
And  a  man  be  the  grace  av  God. 

He  was  sivin  fut  tall  wid  his  cap  and  all 
And  he  paid  for  his  boots  be  the  mile, 

But  gurls  av  his  beat  they  forgave  him  his  feet 
For  the  sake  av  his  heart-melthin'  smile. 

Yit  he  threated   thim   crool,  -did   this   Ser-rgint 
OToole, 

And  the  divil  a  bit  did  he  care; 
Till  Maggie  McFay  turned  the  corner  that  day, 

Wid  the  gold  av  the  sun  in  her  hair. 

Wid  the  light  av  the  skies  in  her  soft,  blue  eyes, 
And  her  hair  av  a  golden  sheen, 
[258] 


And  she  smiled  like  a  witch  at  wan  side  av  the  ditch, 
And  the  thraffic,  it  rumbled  between. 

Faith,  the  autymobiles  made  a  river  av  wheels, 

But  Dennis,  he  lifted  his  hand 
Wid  a  gistoor  like  fate  makin'  speeches  av  state, 

And  he  brought  all  the  wurrld  to  a  sthand. 

Thin,  crookin'  his  finger  at  Maggie  McFay, 

And  swillin'  his  chist  like  a  King, 
The  Thraffic  Squad's  pride  crossed  the  street  in  wan 
stride, 

Wid  Maggie  tucked  under  his  wing. 

And  the  fat  millionaires  and  the  Lady  Eclaires, 
And  the  whole  av  the  Great  Embossed, 

They  nivir  moved  wheel  av  wan  auty mobile 
Till  Dennis  and  Maggie  had  crossed! 

"And  phwat  is  the  pay  for  me  throuble  the  day?" 

Says  Ser-rgint  O'Toole  wid  a  grin. 
Says  Maggie,  "'Tis  this!"     And  she  landed  a  kiss 

On  the  p'int  av  the  blatherskite's  chin. 
[259] 


And  that  is  the  sthory  av  Maggie  McFay, 
But  sthop!     There  is  wan  thing  more — 

This  Dennis  av  mine,  he  was  twinty-and-nine, 
And  Maggie  McFay  was  just  four! 


[260] 


LADDIE 

'E's  a  bit  of  a  vagabond,  same  as  me, 
'E's  brother  to  beggars,  and  friend  to  a  flea, 
'E's  a  son  of  the  'ighroad,  the  old  sea-and-sky 

road, 
The    road    that   leads    out    to    the    far   and   the 

free! 
They  say  it's  a  wrong  road — God  knows  it's  a 

long  road! — 
But  Lor',  it's  a  song-road  to  Laddie  and  me. 

'E's  blind  in  one  eye,  and  'is  tail  is  on  crooked; 

'Is  legs  is  too  long — a  misfortune  o'  birth. 
But  Vs  gay  as  a  man,  and  'e's  true  as  a  woman, 

And  twice  'e  'as  followed  me  over  the  earth! 

'E's  only  a  dog — but  'e  followed  me  true, 
Which  the  flesh  o'  your  flesh  won't  sometimes  do. 
We  'eld  to  the   byways,  the  old   sea-and-sky 
ways, 

[261] 


The  ways  that  lead  out  to  the  gold  and  the  blue! 
God  knows  they  were  far  ways! — and  stranger 

than  star-ways, 
But  Lor',  they  were  our  ways,  so  what  could  we  do  ? 

Then  'urry  the  Spring!    Sweep  the  snow  from  the 

passes! 

The  roads  they  are  callin*  us  far  away; 
To-morrow  .  .  .  we'll  sleep  in  the  sweet  o'  strange 

grasses, 
Sleep  long,  and  wake  slowly,  as  vagabonds  may. 

'E's  a  bit  of  a  vagabond,  same  as  me, 
'E's  brother  to  beggars,  and  friend  to  a  flea; 
'E's  a  son  of  the  'ighroad,  the  old  sea-and-sky 

road, 

The  road  o'  strange  fortune  that  heads  to  the  free! 
God  knows  it's  a  long  road — but  if  it's  a  song- 
road, 
It  cant  be  the  wrong  road  for  Laddie  and  me! 


[262] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DENNIS  McGINTY 

"I  WILL  marry  none  but  a  King,"  she  said, 
Wid  a  flash  av  her  eye,  and  a  toss  av  her  head; 

(And  she  was  but  barely  turned  twinty). 
And  all  av  the  lads  who  came  ridin*  down, 
They  smothered   their  sighs   and  wint   back  to 
town — 

All  excipt  Dennis  McGinty. 

"I  will  have  me  a  riyal  Prince  to  wed, 

A  Prince  on  a  milk-white  steed,"  she  said; 

(And  she  was  then  two-and-twinty). 
And    all    av    her    lovers,    they    looked    at    their 

nags, 
And  fled  wid  their  hear-rts  in  their  saddle-bags, 

All  excipt  Dennis  McGinty. 

"I  will  marry  a  landed  lord,"  she  cried, 
"Wid  castles  tall  and  acres  wide"; 
(And  she  was  then  four-and-twinty). 
[263] 


But  all  av  her  gallants,  they  turned  away, 
For  divil  a  bit  av  a  castle  had  they, 
All  excipt  Dennis  McGinty. 

"I  will  marry  the  bravest  who  comes,"  she  sighed, 
"The  man  av  most  courage  shall  have  me  to  bride"; 

(And  she  was  then  six-and-twinty). 
And  out  came  the  weapons  for  miles  around, 
And  all  the  lads  fought  till  they  fell  to  the  ground — 

All  excipt  Dennis  McGinty. 

"At  least  I  will  marry  a  man,"  she  said, 

Wid  a  blush  to  her  cheek  and  a  hang  to  her  head; 

(And  then  she  was  eight-and-twinty). 
But  there  wasn't  the  likes  av  a  marryin'  lad 
Left  alive  in  the  land — excipt  wan,  bedad, 

And — she  married  Dennis  McGinty. 


[264] 


LITTLE  FISHERMAN 

"Ho,  bonny  little  Fisherman  with  the  blue  eye 

and  the  basket.  .  .  . 
Where  are  ye  goin'  now — if  I  may  ask  it?" 

"Oh,  I'm  goin'  down  to  the  tinklin'  brook,  that 

flows  beneath  the  willow, 
An'  I'll  sit  in  the  shade  of  a  pretty  tree,  with  a 

green  moss  pillow." 

"An*  what  '11  ye  do  when  ye're  sittin*  there,  my 

little  Fisher-laddie, 
Will  ye  catch  a  whoppin*  spotted  pike,  or  a  siller 

shaddie?" 

"Oh,  I'll  catch  nae  one  nor  t'other,  lass,  nor  siller 

fish  nor  mottle, 
But  I'll  sit  in  the  shadow  of  a  green  tree,  an* 

4rink  fra*  a  brown  bottle!" 

[265] 


CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  ROAD 

'TWAS  the  gray  o*  Christmas  morning  when  we 

struck  the  open  road, 
Behind   us  in  the  withered   dawn  the   lights  o* 

Christmas  glowed; 
The  little  lights  o*  Christmas-tide  that  stand  upon 

the  trees, 
And   warm  the  hearts  o*  vagabonds   across   the 

Seven  Seas. 


Across  the  wide,  wide  seas,  Laddie,  where  you  and 
I  have  gone, 

And  de'il  a  light  is  lit  for  us  adown  the  Christmas- 
dawn; 

But  all  the  road's  a  gift,  Laddie,  and  all  the  world 
is  ours, 

And  there'll  be  Christmas  candles  when  we  lift  the 
winter  stars! 

[266] 


You're  nothing  but  a  mongrel,  with  a  memory  for 

a  tail, 
And  your  hide  is  lemon-yaller,  and  your  pedigree 

is  pale, 
But   to-day   you'd    be    plumb    precious — if   you 

weren't  so  bloomin'  sad: — 
'Cause    it's    Christmas,    Laddie,    Christmas — and 

you're  all  I  ever  had. 


Its  Christmas  on  the  road.  Laddie,  so  kick  your 

heels  and  go; 
The  little  lights  o'  Christendom  are  shining  on  the 

snow; 
The  lights  are  on  the  trees,  Laddie — Lor\  how  the 

windows  gleam! 
And  all  I've  got's  a  yaller  dog  to  keep  the  Christmas 

dream.  , 


The  rich  they  set  their  candles  on  their  blinded 

window-sills, 
But  all  the  Light  o'  Christendom   is  streaming 

from  the  hills, 

[267] 


And  you  and  I  shall  trail  it  to  the  twilight — or 

beyond. 
So    Merry    Christmas,    yaller    dog,    you    precious 

vagabond! 

The  rich  are  none  so  gay,  Laddie,  they  bear  a  weary 

load; 
But  yaller  dogs,  and  raggea  men,  they  walk  the  open 

road. 
So  turn  you  to  the  dawn,  Laddie,  and  kick  your  heels 

and  go — 
The  fairest  Day  o*  Christendom  is  shining  on  the 

snow! 


THE    END 


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tf 


«* 


22 


NOV  25  1946 

REC'P  LD 

MAY  is 


LD  lil-'JOw. 


330305 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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